


Broken Agent/ In The Dark

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega Harold, Omegaverse, consent issues in later chapters between Harold and Root
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:39:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 57,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: A slightly "bad John" story. Omegaverse with omegas on top for a change. I've removed the dubious consent tag for Reese/Finch. Harold may have conflicted feelings but he is consenting. Thanks to JinkyO for inspiring so much, concept-wise!Dubious consent rears its head again in later chapters -- between Root and Harold.





	1. They Meet

**Author's Note:**

> There are some power dynamic elements in the social structure of this AU with omegas at the top or heart of social structures, protected by alphas and provided for by betas. I've used the term lair to identify a grouping, which can refer to a family, a social or work group.
> 
> In this world the male omegas have small vaginal openings in the space between the testicles and anus and can become pregnant. In general, omegas have an androgynous appearance, and exhibit a range of secondary sexual characteristics between male and female. They are identified as male or female depending upon which predominate. I've also included the bonding gland at the juncture of neck and shoulder that JinkyO introduced in the excellent story "The Problem With Children."

John wandered. He wasn’t seeking refuge, only to put New Rochelle behind him. He gravitated to the city where there were more shadows. More bars to drink in, more liquor stores to lift a bottle from when his money ran out.

Drunk and sick, his wounds healing badly, he passed out one night in the dark of an abandoned warehouse. That is where refuge found him. He came to, cushioned on a bed of rags in a lair of the homeless. At its center, an elderly female omega. Around her had formed a small band of indigent betas, like something out of the tribal past.

Even a broken alpha was of value here, John figured, to people with nothing. The omega’s aura was not strong, but he could feel it, like a soft thin blanket. It must have been enough to draw the betas to her to feel some warmth; the lingering traces of powerful pheromones.

She must want the protection of his aura, he thought, despite his diminished physical state. Maybe the energy coming off him was still enough to ward off dangers, but he knew he was too weak to fight.

“I’m no good to you,” he told her, though he let her tip a flat bottle to his lips, delivering a splash of liquor.

“You’ll mend.” Never, he thought, but said nothing more. She was referring to the gash in his side, the bruises and contusions; he knew there was much more wrong with him. Things she couldn’t see. He was a failed alpha. He’d surrendered a chance to serve a woman who loved him to serve his country and now, the woman was dead. Service to his country had morphed into a nightmare of murder and betrayals. He was fit to serve no one now.

The betas gave him food, a little whiskey; they shared whatever they had. The aged meg attended his bedside herself, seeing to his wounds and the physical needs he’d ignored. Handling him more tenderly than he deserved, she milked him, relieving the congestion in his groin that burned from long neglect.

As he healed and the cobwebs in his head cleared, he began to understand that it was kindness, not need, that had prompted her to take him in. There was little that threatened her primitive lair, beyond periodic raids conducted by the city. An alpha was no protection from that.

When he was well enough to move under his own steam, he could no longer tolerate being cared for. Couldn’t take another morsel of food from the lair’s meagre stores. Before he left he undertook a supply run, some light breaking and entering, to repay his debt. He restocked his own supply and was soon deadened again by whiskey. On a subway train, heading … anywhere, nowhere.

The liquor helped mask his scent and his ingrained training kept his aura tamped down. It offered no threat, no affront to those around him, but it tempted a young alpha to abuse him. A punk who wanted to flex his muscles and flaunt some power in front of his buddies.

John fought by reflex in a flare of drunken anger, pulling back short of killing as he realized what he was doing.

The police station was a half sober dream. None of it mattered. He was mute as a witness but they had video surveillance.

John watched a female detective carefully secure a plastic water cup with his fingerprints on it. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. Let her find his crimes, lock him away. 

Then a lawyer appeared, an expensive one.

 

ooo

 

“You’re not government,” John said, struggling to get his breathing under control, trying to shut down the honeyed lure of the omega’s scent. He should have just choked him out and been done with it.

He’d already told the rich bastard, thanks but no thanks, when he showed up with the price tag for springing him out of jail. Some craziness.

His scent had been like nothing John ever tasted before. It tested his resistance training to the limit. He couldn’t give in. Whatever it was the strange omega wanted or needed, John knew he was too broken to give it. What’s more, he was done being handled, by anyone.

He backed away now, landing heavily in an armchair, staring at him.

John didn’t like being tricked. He didn’t like things he couldn’t explain, like how this omegan motherfucker knew so much about him. The drugs, the adrenaline were still playing havoc with his body. The tape of the woman screaming, so real.

“No, I’m not,” the omega said, adjusting his collar, and stiffly, his neck. He walked with a pronounced limp toward the chair near John, ineffectually trying to straighten his fine clothing. The clothes were barely disturbed but he was obviously ruffled. “I guess you could call me a concerned third party.” It took a moment for him to look up and meet John’s eyes. 

“You couldn’t have saved this woman … or your friend. But you could have if you’d known in time. And that’s the other thing I’m offering you, a chance to be there in time. It’s not too late for her.” The omega handed him a picture, the woman they’d seen buying coffee. “ You could help me stop what’s about to happen. The question is, will you?”

He’s crazy, John thought. I’m even crazier, for considering this … offer.

It was the most bizarre recruitment he’d ever encountered. With him sitting so close, John felt a throb of longing. He wanted this. He’d cleaned himself up the night before. Shaving his matted beard, shearing off the tangled filth of his hair. Who did he think he was he kidding. It wasn’t to make it harder for the police to find him (the lie he told himself as he washed months of grime from his body.) He’d been primping. Trying to make himself presentable.

He loathed the hope inside him, hated himself for grasping at life. He would not grovel for the omega.

“If you know exactly everything about me and you’re so hot to be my handler … you must realize you need to sweeten the deal.” John gave him a look of frank appraisal.

“I’m aware … of the services provided by your former employers, of your needs,” the omega said, frowning, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. His discomfort almost made John smile. "I’ll make arrangements for you.” For the first time since the stranger sent a high-priced lawyer to spring him, John felt like he might have an edge. He wouldn’t work without the understanding of how his needs would be seen to. No alpha would. Now he’d make his terms known.

“No arrangements. If you want me … you’ll have to take care of me, yourself.”

John leaned back in the arm chair, feeling the thrill of defiance and a rush of anticipation that made his dick swell. If this omega was desperate enough for his skills, his power, then he was going to have to get his dainty hands wet, his mouth, his cunt. John wouldn’t be handed off. There might be a little trouble with the neck, limited mobility … but the lips were sweet-looking and John wasn’t all that fussy about going deep. Later, if he did what the omega wanted, he’d expect him to give up much more. Going deep would be no problem.

“Did you check out the goods while I was passed out?” he asked. The look of affront on the serious face, the mounting redness in his cheeks, told him that even if the omega had checked him out, it was a source of embarrassment. The eyes were cast down and the omega’s aura radiated distress.

If a part of John loathed behaving this way toward the possible source of all joy and nurture in his life, it was buried deep beneath his pain. He waited, deliberately confining his attention to the delicious smells beneath the rippling scent of discomfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding alphas and their milk! (Thanks, yet again, to Zaniida for making me clarify!)
> 
> The milk, as I've envisioned it, is a thinner consistency than sperm. It's created by glands not unlike the prostate. It is a by-product of an alpha's hormone activity, and production is accelerated by fighting and flaring. It builds up in the milk sacs (between the testicles and rectum.) It causes arousal but can become painful if unattended. Could be seen as having the evolutionary benefit of making the alpha who fights appear virile and able to protect! It does mingle with sperm.
> 
> Omega pheromones are required to release the sacs. Anyone, theoretically, can milk an alpha in the presence of a strong enough omega aura. Some alphas have beta mates and can either be milked in the lair by their beta under the aforementioned circumstances, or visit a milk bar. Alphas (unless they are gay, which I'm sure some must be!) are generally turned off by one another's smell. Though they are physically capable of performing a milking their competitive natures and scent sensitivity would make it distasteful.
> 
> The milk is mildly intoxicating for omegas to drink. In alpha's dreams, maybe it gets bottled and saved! ;)
> 
> Added chapter titles - 4/24/18 in response to another smart suggestion by Zaniida!


	2. Agreement Is Reached

John waited to see if the omega would buckle … or throw him out.

“I respected your privacy while you were unconscious, Mr Reese.” 

“Obviously.” What could be more respectful than drugging somebody and tying them to a bed? The irony wasn’t lost on his captor, who continued to look extremely uncomfortable. All to the good, in John’s mind; he was getting the better of this would-be handler.

“It was necessary … to get your attention.” 

“You have it,” he said. And there was a price to pay for it. “Now I need your attention … if we’ve reached an agreement. Have we … reached an agreement?” His thighs tensed apart in anticipation.

The omega’s face was on fire. 

“I will see to your needs myself,” he said. He sounded like he was striving for a business-like tone, but he was having trouble meeting John’s eyes. “If that’s your wish.”

John offered a smile that said, I’m going to enjoy this — you, maybe not so much. He stood up and unceremoniously opened the fly of his jeans. Underwear and pants pushed down to his knees, then he sat and shoved them down to his ankles to give himself plenty of room. He settled back in the chair.

Watching the buttoned up omega get down on his knees between his naked thighs was almost enough to bring John off, all by itself. The smooth-cheeked face with the scholarly glasses, inches from his hard cock. The mouth, with its pouting lower lip. The smell of him.

John wanted to find the source of that salty sweet scent. Suck on him, plunge his tongue inside him. Not now. Not yet. Later, maybe he could push that far if he did the job. There was no end to what he wanted … but he was lucky to have this. The soft hand closing around him, stroking him slowly to urge the upward flow. The blue eyes blinked up at him, a moment’s hesitation before he lowered his head and opened his mouth. The slide of the moist lips was so good that John gave up the first warm stream helplessly, barely rocking his hips, rubbing against the velvety tongue.

 

***

It was outrageous. The alpha was pushing him, testing him. He never expected it to be easy to bring John Reese in, but he hadn’t expected this.

It wasn’t an alpha’s place to demand personal service … but this was not just any alpha.

Harold wouldn’t have tolerated such a display or suggestion from anyone else, certainly not from any of the alphas he’d hired in the past. Short term contracts with customary arrangements, provisions made at a reputable facility. But he was going to tolerate this alpha’s disrespect and he was going to agree to his demands.

The brutal irony was that he wanted him. A desire that shamed him because he had, in fact, checked him out (to use the alpha’s crude term.) He had not touched him, but to be precise, he had studied him for a long time, and not without desire. And not just that day.

For close to a year Harold had monitored the CIA agent. He’d watched him since he’d seen him save the life of a vulnerable young beta, one that he himself was trying to protect. The unexpected mercy had drawn him in, made him curious. He saw potential for someone that could help him. The alpha was unlooked-for light in what were very dark days. It didn’t hurt that the man was beautiful to look at.

Then his path and the alpha’s had crossed again and recrossed, in frightening ways, in fateful ways.

The attraction he felt was beside the point, in his mind. John Reese was physically attractive and his power was seductive. Harold forgave himself the budding infatuation he felt, fantasies of coupling, of bonding — he knew it was the product of his loneliness, his necessary isolation.

He’d never actually had a lair. He’d had an alpha lover, his partner Nathan Ingram. When he lost him, he lost both the closest thing he had to normal contact with the world and his desire.

It was imperative to save John Reese, not to secure himself a plaything or partner, but to mend at least some of the damage he’d unwittingly done to him. He also desperately needed a skilled alpha to assist him with the numbers. Suffering his insolence, meeting his demands, Harold owed him this and more.

He was shaky, his mouth felt like it had too much spit in it and his heart was thudding as he got carefully down on his knees. He could do this, he would do this. It was difficult to begin. The sucking, once he established his hold and the motions, soothed him. He breathed the alpha’s scent so deep he knew he’d be able to sense it forever and remember it when he was alone. It was like finding safe passage through a dark forest, beautiful, dangerous, enticing.

Had it been like this with Nathan? Don’t think about Nathan, he told himself. He settled into a rhythm, filling his mouth and swallowing, massaging the flow. The alpha’s aura smoothed out, the forest becoming serene, the man becoming docile as he was milked. It was the irony of alphas. They offered protection but they needed to be taken care of; tame as kittens when their need was being met.

Harold shifted his weight on his knees as pleasure fluttered low in his belly. He had to lean his forearm on the alpha’s thigh for support. The absorbent pad in his underwear was becoming slick. He’d taken to wearing them again sometime during the winter he began watching John Reese. For a long time he hadn’t needed them; his body dry and the vaginal seam almost closed while he mourned Nathan and struggled with his own injuries. Now, even upping his suppressants didn’t stop the flow. The drugs had kept a heat cycle at bay but how long would that last now that he’d done this foolish, foolish thing.

 

***

 

I gave you a job … I never said it would be easy; John heard the words echo in his head more than once, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. It took days, taxing his skills to the limit (which to be honest, he really enjoyed.) The action excited him but it was understood he’d get no more attention until the work was done. Dealing with Finch taxed his patience, not so enjoyable. He bridled at the omega’s secrecy, the way he shrouded everything in mystery.

Eventually, he had come across with some details. He gave up a location, the abandoned library, and he revealed the source of his information. The machine. A story that was hard to believe and yet John believed him.

Seventy-two hours, two men dead. One a crooked cop he’d put down himself, the other, one of the number’s targets, taken down by paid thugs in jail. Two car crashes. A teenaged kid saved, but alone in the world now, his brother dead.

John had come through it with some bruises, some scrapes. Nothing serious. On the bright side, they’d broken up a corruption ring, saved a man and his young son. Also to the good — John had acquired an asset. A compromised beta cop, potentially the start of a lair. Lionel Fusco. John thought he could prove pretty useful and if he got a taste of the omega’s aura he’d be solid. There was now a weapons stash, money in his pocket, new clothes. A furnished room on the fringes of Hell’s Kitchen. The prospect of his sweet reward.

He didn’t like that Finch wanted to meet outside, at that bench under the bridge. Not exactly a place where John could get his hands on him. Not a good sign. 

“You have a choice to make,” Finch said. It hit John like a slap in the face. A plane ticket out and funds to start over. Maybe I should take it, he thought, angry, listening, watching the omega deliver what sounded like a set speech. This must be how he unloaded his alphas. He was sure he wasn’t the first one brought in to do the heavy lifting. The guy had enough money to use someone like him and get rid of him.

It wasn’t even a lair yet, barely formed and Finch was already resisting, withholding, trying to ditch him. John wasn’t going to let him off that easy.

The omega wasn’t looking at him. John turned toward him, studying his profile, his soft, fine hair tousled by the wind. Finch had his hands in his coat pockets.

Why so desperate to reel him in and now push him away? There were moments in the past few days when he’d felt solid ground under his feet, like he was on a road with a direction.

John reached over and undid a button of Finch’s coat, startling him. It earned him a flash of the blue eyes. Slowly and deliberately, he slid his hand into the opening he’d created. 

“Maybe we do wind up dead,” he agreed. “For real.”

There was so much fabric, a jacket, a vest, a shirt. “Before that happens, I think you owe me more than a plane ticket, Finch.” John’s hand found the well-protected, shallow curve of his breast. Now he had the omega’s full attention.

“You could have just said, yes, Mr Reese.” John could feel his heartbeat. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand.


	3. Harold Gives John A Choice

He offered him the same choice he’d given the others. Most of them took it, finding the work harder than they imagined. Some stayed longer than others but Harold cut them all loose before they could get too close to him, or to the truth.

The hillside by the river, free of surveillance cameras, was the place he always chose. He’d come early for this meeting, hoping to sort through his thoughts, his feelings. Clouds had rolled in with a stiff northeasterly wind. He turned up his collar and warmed his hands in his pockets, wondering if today would be a farewell.

It should be, he thought. Already, he’d violated his inner vow to protect the library. He shouldn’t have taken him there. He’d made that mistake once before, with Dillinger. A disaster. But Reese wasn’t like him. He lacked respect, it was true, but it was superficial, not in his heart. Harold had to believe that.

Of course, Reese had used the setting of the library to try to put pressure on him, standing much too close, breathing too close to Harold’s shoulder and neck. A hand touching his waist.

“Back up, Mr Reese. You’ve earned nothing more from me yet.” A firm tone, resolute … even though at that moment Harold was melting inside.

The alpha’s captivating eyes. The way he looked at him, smiled as he made space between them. Not a shred of respect. And yet, I trust him, Harold thought.

He’d revealed the existence of the machine to him. How much further might he go if Reese stayed? It was dangerous to keep him, to trust him with these secrets, but dear god, the man was good. What he’d done, what he’d accomplished in these past few days was incredible. Harold knew that without him many more lives, innocent lives, would have been lost. More would be endangered by Hansen and her secret lair in the future if he hadn't found a way to stop them.

I have to trust someone, sometime, he thought.

There was another reason to keep him, one that he was not so proud of. It had nothing to do with the saving of innocent lives. He wanted him. The world thought he was dead and Harold had done his best to live as a ghost. But his body was showing definite, disturbing signs of life, a sweet aching in the pit of his belly, a yearning in his heart. The moments when John Reese stood too close to him, deliberately breathing at his neck, touching him lightly but suggestively, were as erotically charged as the actual oral contact. He’d replayed them and the milking in his mind, in bed, until in a fit of disgust with himself, he’d had to get up and change his soaked pad. After that he’d turned to his well-worn field guide to birds, the copy he kept by the bed. He calmed himself with pictures and details, memories of sightings, until his eyes grew heavy enough for sleep.

 

***

The hotel was high end, the lobby gleaming, bustling and John moved through it smoothly. He was the first to arrive. The room, on an upper floor, had an impressive skyline view. He closed the curtains, the habit of caution and at the moment, lack of interest. He was more focused on what would be happening in the room than looking out.

The agency had always provided vouchers. The usual arrangement, access to good bars with high end equipment and omega performers — he’d liked that. You couldn’t always touch them but strapped into a good machine within scent range of a ripe omega … he got hard thinking about it. It had been like a high octane jolt to his system, a healing dose. And then there was Mark Snow. His last omega handler. The less he thought about him, the better. He wasn’t going to take that kind of crap from Finch. Snow had kept them at the edge of desperation. And then he’d set them at each other’s throats.

John shut down those thoughts. He found himself staring at the bar and was sure he’d find something mellowing in there, something to even him out, but instead he worked on his breathing. Finch might not like the stink of alcohol on him.

What the omega liked or didn’t like, should it matter? Yes. John didn’t want anything coming between him and what he wanted that night. An omega who smelled as good (better) than any pumped up performer, who’d already given him the best milking of his life. Not as deep, not as thorough as a good machine. Not even as skilled as he’d had from professionals, but better. Because it was personal. Not a machine, not a pro. More like what he remembered feeling with Jess; the beta who'd loved him, whom he'd failed. Wrong. Harold Finch was not his lover. But John was determined not to fail him as long as their arrangement held. So ... no whiskey.

 

***

 

Harold’s collar was turned up and he adjusted the angle of his hat to shade most of his face as he passed through the lobby. He’d taken an extra dose of suppressant and had also worn scent shields as an added precaution. Evidently these steps were not enough to disguise his breed. One of the management’s alphas approached him at check in. Apparently, passing for beta was not happening this evening.

“Please allow me to escort you to your suite, sir.”

“Certainly. Thank you.” Pro forma protection for a wealthy omega. To refuse it would draw more attention than allowing the alpha to deliver him safely to his room.

It would have been easier to handle this at one of his safe houses but Harold was determined not to spill any more secrets. He had considered the possibility of just meeting back at the library. There was a bed there, in a side room. But if he allowed this to happen at the library, it would be much harder to maintain boundaries in the future.

His mouth felt dry and his heart rate too fast. He was sweating a little, which didn’t help at all with tamping down his scent. He noted that his escort, Jurgen, was breathing rather deeply. Harold was getting shy, somewhat too-friendly, glances from the young beta couple they were sharing the elevator with. The pair seemed reluctant to exit when the doors opened on their floor, until Jurgen discreetly cleared his throat and made a point of holding the door for them. When the doors closed again, his escort murmured, “Sorry about that sir.”

“It’s quite all right,” Harold assured him. It wasn’t exactly rude behavior. Politeness dictated outward indifference to the scent of omegas in public but it was unevenly observed. “They were very young,” he noted, excusing them. And I, he thought, am much too excited.

 

***

“What is that?” John was crowded up close to Finch, impatient to get his hands on him as the omega hung his coat in the closet. He’d grabbed him, right at the juncture of his ass cheeks, curling his fingers up into his crotch. The startled omega was clutching the hangared coats for balance. John had a handful of something he couldn’t explain, a thick barrier inside the pants. “Is that some kind of armor, Finch?”

“No, Mr Reese,” he said, with exaggerated patience to show his annoyance. “It is the sort of thing that would be removed if you allowed me a decent time to prepare.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.” He squeezed an ass cheek. Nice, plump. Finch smelled even better than he remembered. He was turning around in the small space John was giving him. John let go of his ass but felt for his little cock. Like toys, omega cocks, pretty little toys. And this one was chubby and swollen. John’s mouth watered.

“If you must know,” Finch said, pushing John’s hand away by the wrist. “It’s a sanitary pad. To absorb moisture. Surely you are familiar with such a thing.”

John was definitely not familiar with any such wonderful thing.

He stepped back a little, staring at him. Finch was flushed pink like the time before. He could see both his outrage and embarrassment, but his mind was stuck on … absorbing moisture. The omega was wet. Something warm was snug up against his cunt, collecting wetness, living its life between his legs. John wanted to see it, to rub it on his mouth, under his nose, on his hard cock. But he was immobilized, stuck like a fly in honey. Finch frowned and moved past him. He was headed toward the bathroom.

He stopped at the door, turning to look at John, who found his voice. “What are you going to do with it Finch?”

The omega shot him a look of barely controlled indignation and for the very first time buffeted him with a flare. Like being hit with a pillow. An omega couldn’t hurt you with a flare but they could make their will known. John knew only too well that they could use it to deprive you of everything good and sweet and if Finch tried that … he groped to think of how he'd retaliate, but the flare ended.

“I’ll be out when I’m ready,” he said. “Please turn down the bed and ready yourself, Mr Reese. There is really no call to say disgusting things or to grab at me.”

Oh, there’s need, John thought, but didn’t speak. When the omega was closed away in the bathroom, he considered going after him but didn’t.

Ready yourself, he repeated to himself.


	4. A Hotel Room

Harold set his bag on the bathroom counter. He saw his flushed face in the mirror and turned away. He needed to collect himself. Reese was deliberately trying to provoke him. He couldn’t allow himself to be goaded like that. There was too much at stake. He knew for his own part that he was too keyed-up, overreacting. He turned back around and began unpacking the things he needed from his bag. He avoided looking at himself as he undressed.

He’d showered at home but freshened himself at the sink and then used the bidet, the cool jets were a little startling between his legs but made him feel cleaner.

He carefully wrapped and disposed of the pad that the alpha had shown too much interest in. He was sure Nathan had never been curious about his hygiene products, never said anything if he was aware of something there. Of course, Nathan was a different sort of alpha. Reserved, cerebral, his power geared toward business, protecting the firm. And he was not Harold’s mate, he was his lover. Perhaps Nathan had been more impetuous, more impulsive with Olivia, his bond-mate. It was an uncomfortable thought.

He reminded himself that John Reese was not his lover or his mate.

A calming breath. He wrapped himself in the plush hotel robe to leave the refuge of the bathroom. He had a pair of ultra-thick bed-towels in his arms. This encounter could be managed in a controlled way. They had already detailed their conditions: coitus, as the alpha demanded; without knotting, as Harold insisted.

Reese was waiting for him, naked. Lying on his side, looking like he’d been watching the door for him to come out.

“You were gone a while, Finch. Punishing me?” Harold envied the ease of his pose. The lines of his torso, his long legs; he was motioning for Harold to come closer. The dusky genitals were fully aroused. A view, Harold thought, one never saw pictured in fine art. Maybe alphas should be painted in a turgid state … or at least this alpha should be. The erection, the dark sac seemed at one with the beautiful geometry of Reese’s body.

He became aware that he was staring and tried to remember the things he had planned to say.

“Punishing you? No.”

 

***

John took the towels from him and spread them on the sheet beside him. He wasn’t convinced that the omega didn’t mean to punish him but he let it go. 

“When I undress,” Finch was saying, “you’ll see that I’m quite scarred, Mr Reese. All you need to know is that our choice of … positions may be limited.” Scars weren’t a big deal to John but he was intent on the sight of Finch removing the robe.

The front of him was perfect, from his cherub’s dick, to his small tits. When he turned to lay the robe on the bedside chair, John saw his back. The scars looked like trauma wounds and surgical incisions. Something had happened to him, something violent. Finch had made it pretty clear he wouldn’t talk about it. John’s guess was shrapnel from some kind of explosion and he flushed at the thought of Finch endangered. Not under his watch.

To him, the scarred back was just as compelling as the front; squared graceful shoulders, tender-looking ass, smooth legs. He watched Finch sit down and slowly lower himself to the pillow. Completely exposed and in reach. For a moment John was stunned by where he was and what he had.

I’ve earned this, he told himself, breathing deep. Earned it with my fists. With cunning, with power. It wasn’t a reward for allegiance. He hadn’t taken any oath. He wasn’t here because Finch loved him and was giving himself to him.

He could see a flush spreading over the omega’s throat, see his pulse beating in the hollow of it. John leaned in, his cock brushed a warm thigh and spilled a milky stream over it.

He cleared his throat. “Good thinking … the towels, Finch.”

“Yes, well.” The omega’s face was hard to read, frowning, but there was no taste of distress. “It’s what they’re for.” His voice trailed off.

John reached out to palm his breast. Barely a handful, but it was incredibly soft. He squeezed it gently and framed it to make it swell upward; the pale pink nipple was a good-sized cap for such a tiny tit. He leaned in and sniffed the skin, rubbed the tip with his nose and licked it lazily. He sucked in a mouthful and nursed at it for a while, his cock sliding over Finch’s creamy thigh. Then he sucked the other breast, pausing to lick for traces of sweat in the valley between the small mounds. These alone were worth the work he'd put in but he wanted more.

“I need in,” he told him, looking up into a face transformed by pleasure, rosy with arousal, eyelids heavy. Icing on the cake.

“On my side,” Finch whispered. He turned with a little groan, bending his knees up. John explored with the head of his cock until the slippery surface gave and he was in the warm pussy.

He found a hold on Finch’s waist to keep him close as he rocked into the lush heat, drunk with pleasure. 

 

***

He was in trouble and he knew it, hugging the pillow, still feeling his body reverberate with the last spasms of coming. It was too intimate. Too intense, too … everything. The alpha’s hand was wandering over him with impunity, touching his breast, toying with the nipple, exercising carte blanche to handle him. Harold was too undone to object even if he'd wanted to. The sensation stirred another delicious shiver through his body.

The question wasn’t when he’d lost control. He was no longer sure he’d ever had it to begin with. Somehow he had to drag himself out of this bed … soon. Find a way to keep all of this corralled. He couldn’t pretend it was only the alpha who needed discipline.

He waited until he thought Reese was asleep and moved slowly out of his hold. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box by the bed to catch the rush between his legs when he stood up.

Harold scrubbed himself in the shower and used a douche to flush whatever fluids hadn’t already dripped out of him. He was relieved not to feel any soreness but dabbed carefully with an analgesic after-care cream when he’d dried himself, just to be safe. A fresh pad in place, he dressed quickly and quietly in the bathroom.

“Sneaking out, Finch?” the alpha spoke up in the dark as he moved past the bed toward the closet.

“I like to get an early start on my day, Mr Reese. I’ll be in touch when we have another number.”

 

***

Fusco was in a bad way, sitting in a bar with a shot of bourbon in front of him. His buddies were dead or in jail. He still felt grimy from digging Stills’s grave even though he’d hit the showers at the Y (too many nosy cops at the precinct barracks.)

Some “o time” would be good right about now, he thought, with his bruised back and ribs, his hands raw from gripping the shovel. His head felt like it was stuffed with dirty cotton. Stills was a crap friend but losing him pretty much emptied Fusco’s dance card. The meg was alive but locked up. The lair was blown to smithereens.

Where the hell had that alpha fuck come from, anyway? Evil eyes, he thought. Too pretty. They were seared in his memory from the rearview mirror. The eyes and that smug grin. Hell of a thing. He drained his shot and wondered if he dared show up at his ex’s place. His former mother-in-law was pretty much bed-ridden now, living in a back bedroom of the house that Fusco was still paying for. She was a decent meg, still had some juice. He shook off that idea; she hated him more than her daughter did. Stills was the one who helped him out when the ex dumped him. Now what? Back to the Y, better than the dorms because nobody knew him. He’d stop at the library. The meg librarian was okay. Generous with kids and didn’t make a fuss if a grown ass guy like him came in to sit and read and absorb a little comfort. He’d gone there a lot before getting hooked up with Hansen. The alpha guards were a pain in the ass, flaring if you nodded off over your book or a terminal, if you tried to get too chummy with the meg. The reading room would be open for a couple hours yet. He could mooch enough off the library tit to see him through.


	5. Universal Heritage

John couldn’t fall back to sleep after Finch left. He got up for a shower, snagging the tube of high-end lube from the amenities basket to take in with him. Letting the multiple jets of water strike his back, he stroked himself in a slick fist, combing through the night in his mind. He focused in on the breathy whimpering sounds the omega had made when he came. It felt good to jerk off. Not like tapping the deeper chambers of a milking (which were blessedly clear) but … good. An echo of the night.

It didn’t bother him that Finch had taken off early. Not much, anyway. He’d done what he agreed to do, why should he hang around?

Physically, John felt good. Like a well-oiled machine from hours wreathed in the omega’s air, an aura so strong that drugs couldn’t hide it (John knew exactly which drugs from checking through drawers at the library.)

The alpha understood how his own life choices had led to a shadow existence but not how it had happened to someone like Finch. The lengths he had to go to to hide himself were staggering. A brilliant omega with that much power should be at the head of something major, a hospital, a university … a dynasty. Not in hiding. Finch had nothing. Not even a simple lair. No mate, no pups. No alpha. No connections of any kind as far as John could tell and no sign that he wanted any — beyond hiring him. He was like a king in exile, without a kingdom.

He’d flatly refused when John proposed bringing in Fusco. Granted, the dirty cop wasn’t the most appealing guy in the world. That wasn’t the point. He was an asset, he was useful. John had the beta by the short hairs but it would be more solid if he sweetened the pot. Finch didn’t see it. Didn’t see it yet, anyway. John wasn’t giving up. Betas made the world work; you had to have them.

He headed home only to change his clothes.

Without any orders, John set himself the task of watching his boss and waited for him to show himself at the library. It took a while and when the small figure finally appeared, John almost missed him. Smart, he thought; his exit timed to blend into lunch hour foot traffic. The way betas subtly gravitated to walk near him meant he had cover. Not smart enough. The hat. He probably thought it obscured his image from street cams, but it was distinctive enough for John to spot and follow. He phoned him as he tailed him.

“Any work for me, Finch?”

“Nothing at the moment, Mr Reese. We’ll need to meet later. You should get some rest.”

“Thought I’d do a little research.”

“I’ll be interested to hear what you discover.” The omega turned a corner … and seemed to vanish into thin air.

“How’s your research going?” Finch asked him. John studied the empty sidewalk and knew he’d been played. “Another thing,” the omega added, “we’ll meet on my schedule, Mr Reese, not yours.”

 

***

Harold liked the hat he sacrificed to throw the alpha off his trail but he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been monitoring Reese all morning through his phone and it was making him a little bit crazy that he was just lingering out there, in wait. It made Harold feel hunted. If the man wanted to see him he would have come in.

Twenty minutes after he tracked Reese’s departure, a company town car from Universal Heritage Insurance pulled up at the curb of his closest safe house.

The alpha driver, whom he knew by sight, greeted him.

“Good afternoon, Mr Crane. The children will be happy to see you.”

“Good afternoon.”

He was later than usual checking in but he’d made it in time for the midday nap period. Harold Crane’s position on the Board of Directors at Universal rarely obliged him to show up at the office in person, but he and his fellow directors took their obligation to the company’s Family Space very seriously. Today he was scheduled to spend at least two hours in the day care center. He’d lowered his suppressant dosage for the occasion and gently pushed his aura outward in a conscious way. 

The glass-walled interior area was often lively but just now the pups had mostly taken to their daybeds. Harold walked among them for the pleasure of visiting a few whose eyes were still open. His own place awaited in the middle of the room on a comfortable couch. He had his book but spared a few moments for quiet pleasantries with the beta attendants who came to sit with him. Monica, a favorite of his among the alphas who worked as a guard for the children, sat beside him.

“So good to see you, sir,” she said softly.

“You too, Monica.” They had known each other for a few years. Harold had been attracted to her for a time and been relieved when she bonded and the energies between them smoothed into neutral tones.

It wasn’t long after pups started waking up and wandering over, that Harold looked up to see a familiar and unwelcome face in the distance. Reese was in the foyer, talking to one of the receptionists, his eyes on Harold and a slight smile on his face.

Monica, more sensitive than most to his aura, asked him, “What’s wrong?” She’d instantly become alert. He saw her look and identify Reese as the source of disturbance. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“No need,” he said, calming himself, lifting a pup that was hanging on his knees into his lap. “I thought I saw someone I knew. I was mistaken.” The next time he looked, Reese was gone.


	6. John Wants It Where Harold Lives

The next job came a day and a half later. It was easy compared to the first, even vaguely entertaining to John. A cheater and two hit men. He crowded his way into an elevator with three alphas. One was their guy, a corporate alpha who was having an affair. The other two were hired killers. John got on just as the doors were about to close. “Almost missed it,” he said, with a grin.

There was a subtle play of power among the four of them, a polite jockeying of energies; John kept his low.

He spoke to the number.

“Those flowers for your wife?” Taken off guard, the alpha mumbled an affirmative.

“I thought your wife liked roses,” John said. The guy showed his affront with a mild flare.

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you, Bill. You’re not a bad guy. You and your wife are having some problems. It happens.” He glanced back at the hired guns.

“Some women would just leave you,” John mused.

“Do you work here? If so you’re fired.”

“Others might hire a couple guys to show up where you work. Dismantle your security cameras.” John pushed a hard flare, disarmed the closest triggerman and used his gun to fire shots to the knees. Finch was strict about deadly force. He took the guns and stepped over the bodies. The elevator doors opened.

The man he’d saved was shaky, sickened by the hot flare and sudden violence, but very much alive.

“I’d call the police and a good divorce lawyer if I was you,” John said.

He was out of there, a little high, and charged up. From a safe distance, police sirens blazing past him, he called Finch.

“They were there,” he told him. “Just like you said they’d be.” A beat later. “I want to see you.”

“It’s only been two days, Mr Reese. I did not understand our agreement to be … per job.”

“Then revise your thinking, Finch … unless you’re punishing me for showing up at your gig.”

“That was ill-advised. I understand your wish to know more about me, but you should know … I’m a very private person. I’m not punishing you. I’m questioning the necessity of another session.”

John could get by without it, even though he wanted it; he could feel the pressure, the desire. Not uncomfortable yet. He didn’t think Finch would ever push him to wait as long as Snow used to, to the level of pain, but there was no time like the present to be sure. He couldn’t let the omega toy with him.

“I need it,” he said. “Don’t bother with a fancy hotel. I’ll meet you at the library.” He cut the connection. He liked the idea of having him there, marking that territory. Maybe the omega wouldn’t show, but John thought he would. And he was right.

John tossed his coat at the couch. Finch was rising from his computer chair, obviously he’d been there all along, working. He looked a little weary, but flushed.

“There’s a bed here … ” he started, but John interrupted.

“I’ll bet there is. Little naps, maybe nights you never make it home. But here, is perfect.” Here, at the work table. John was excited by getting what he wanted right where Finch really lived, surrounded by his books and computers. He started at the omega’s vest buttons. As ever, at least when John saw him, he was in the masculine clothes. His suit jacket was off but he wore the vest that hid his tits, a pretty tie with a fancy knot that distracted the eye. The combination of the clothes and the drugs made John think he probably tried to pass for beta. A stretch with those smooth cheeks and the small frame; the delicate face.

Harold Crane was omega. It had been a satisfying victory to pick up Finch’s trail and find his cover. It answered some questions, raised others. It satisfied something else in John to see him with the pups, the betas. Not pleasant to see him sitting so close to the alpha, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

Finch put a hand up to stop him from removing the vest.

“Fine,” John said, reaching for the belt buckle. “You can leave it on.” He dropped to a squat in front of him and was eye level with a miniature hard-on, which made him grin. He rubbed it lightly though the trousers and Finch backed up a few inches to brace himself against the table. John moved closer on his knees to get the pants off him.

Omega cock was much loved by alphas and betas alike. Perfect for sucking. The cum was called nectar, from the Greek néktar, nourishment from the gods. Like the liquid from flowers it was thin and sweet. John didn’t believe in the rumored health benefits. He figured those came from being close enough, and cared for enough, to be able to get one in your mouth. But he didn’t exactly disbelieve, either.

Finch wasn’t young, maybe forty-five. Could be fifty, it was hard to tell with omegas. He looked boyish to John with his pants down around his ankles, his vest riding up, tie askew and his face bright with blushes. In the tangle of pants and underwear was the thick white pad, like a free gift, glistening with moisture. Finch made a noise of protest when John pulled it loose from the crotch of the panties.

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” Finch pleaded. He sounded genuinely upset, but not bad enough that John couldn’t ignore it; he had no intention of giving this up. He set it down, but only long enough to unzip his own pants and pull his cock free.

“Don’t be selfish, Finch.” He wrapped the soft slick thing around his hard dick, squeezing himself with it. He blew out a breath to steady the rush of pleasure.

His free hand clamped on the omega’s soft butt cheek, he leaned in to suck him. He stroked himself with the pad; it was getting wetter with his own spill as he worked it up and down.

Finch stopped resisting him, his hands coming to rest on John’s head, tentatively pressing against John’s mouth as he was teased and sucked. He gasped when he came, spurting warm jets on John’s tongue. He drank it down, licking to be sure he was missing nothing, tonguing the sweet little balls until Finch gently pushed him away.

If the view of him from the front had excited him, the view from the back when he turned Finch around, to lean him forward on the table, left John speechless. The round butt, the downy cunt — hints of pink inside its puffed edges, the omega’s wet inner thighs.

He had to crouch down a little to get inside but it was worth it. He kept his strokes easy, gentle … better for Finch’s lame hip, better for drawing out his own pleasure. He was keyed to a fever pitch and so was his omega.

His omega, he thought. Not true, but there was no one around to challenge his feeling of possessiveness. He could hear Finch’s struggle to control his breathing and the start of the soft whimpers that meant he was about to come. John surrendered to the bliss of being miked, grasping the omega by his waist to feel him against his chest and stomach. The greediest part of him wanted to thrust harder, deeper, to be embedded, tied. Strictly forbidden by Finch and John had agreed.


	7. Finding Theresa Whitaker

It bothered Harold that the alpha kept asking if he was being punished. He thought it should be obvious that he wasn’t that sort of omega. Punishment was a tool used only by the weak, or poorly educated, in his opinion. Olivia had once said to him, of Nathan, ‘feel free to punish him.’ He’d taken it as a jest but Nathan said she sometimes used it, lightly.

“To make me feel loved,” he’d said, and there had been a twinkle in his eye, which had made Harold quite uncomfortable. He knew she took the use of punishment for granted, but never imagined it was something she would do to Nathan.

He didn’t approve of using prods, even on light settings. He avidly (anonymously) supported politicians working to outlaw their use. He had one in a drawer somewhere that Olivia had given him as a gift years before. It was designed to look like an old-fashioned fountain pen. She called it an “executive model.” Just as reprehensible, he thought, were the walking sticks and canes that many omegas used as accessories. One of those might actually be useful for support, but he didn’t want to be mistaken for someone who would strike a lesser. Some omegas claimed to carry them only as a symbol. Even that offended him.

Punishment by denial, what this alpha was so ready to accuse him of, was no better, to his way of thinking. It was irresponsible and unproductive to misuse an alpha.

The third time Reese brought up punishment was the most serious, the most baffling to him. It couldn’t have been further from Harold’s mind. He’d felt more inclined to bathe him in kisses than punish him. The alpha had just saved his life, and more importantly, the life of an innocent girl.

 

***

 

The sunlight was golden. Leaning on the wooden railing, looking out at the boats and the water was nice. These outdoor meetings were probably meant to keep him from touching Finch. Why else meet at the cemetery or the harbor? Finch could have just said that Theresa Whitaker was probably still alive. John didn’t need to see the family headstone.

Now they were at a boatyard.

It was a nice view. Even if he was listening to Finch talk about murders at sea. Even if it bugged him that Finch was tamped down and so heavily dosed that he smelled like … nothing. He gave off nothing.

Partly to annoy him, and partly for a hit of something good, John moved in close to him without warning, putting his arm around his waist to hold him in place so he could sniff his hair. Some kind of floral shampoo maybe, but underneath it he found what he was looking for.

The omega flared, but John didn’t mind the soft rebuke. He’d gotten what he wanted, a taste.

“Please pay attention, Mr Reese.”

“I heard every word. This is the last place the family was seen alive.”

Finch’s look at him said, what am I going to do with you. It was laced with an underlying indulgence. The whiff of him that lingered in John’s senses made him think that sex with beta Finch would be pretty sweet. As if he saw it in his eyes, the omega turned away and launched back into the sad tale of the Whitakers.

The case was complicated and John soon had other problems dogging him. His dirty cop had come with a load of baggage. Fusco got him the police files he needed but was in a panic. He wanted John’s help with the drug dealers left hanging from the bust of his lair. Fusco was on the hook for a lot of money and they’d threatened his kid.

Another detective, Carter, the one with his prints, was stepping up her search for him. He’d brought that on himself and couldn’t change it now. It happened before Finch. It must not be allowed to endanger what he had now. He had to find a way to keep tabs on her, manage his beta, and find the girl who wasn’t dead, but would be soon if he couldn’t figure out who wanted to kill her.

Without a lair for support, John had to draft Finch for help, his fake beta. He hated every second the omega was out in the field, unprotected, but there was no choice. He had to call him in a second time, to watch over the girl herself, while he tracked down the guy who put out the hit.

It was a nightmare. He got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time; Finch and the girl across town, cornered and helpless without him.

In the end it came down to speed and aim. He reached them without a second to spare. He knew a flare couldn’t stop this guy — they’d shoved everything they had at each other in a brawl only hours before. The only way he could stop him was to fire first and not miss. Take out the arm to stop the shot and then the legs to bring him down.

John wanted to kill the bastard a hundred times over, unload at center mass and piss on his dead body. Useless, he knew he was encased in kevlar. Head shots … he couldn’t. Not with Finch and the girl staring at him, their eyes already round with horror.

Alive. They were alive. John reined in and controlled his breathing. It wasn’t like him, this anger, this heat for the kill. He was known for his cool, his precision. Dispassionate skill. Slowly, he breathed easier. He saw the cause of his bloodlust limping toward him. He’d almost lost him. There was no oath, there were no vows, but somewhere inside he’d taken this omega for his own.

They waited together afterwards, out of the range of surveillance cameras. Another sunny, breezy afternoon. They stood across the street from the park where John had arranged the hand-off to Carter. They watched until Theresa Whitaker was safe in her hands.

“Let’s separate. Meet me at the library,” Finch said.

John nodded. As he walked away he felt heavy with the weight of the case. Too close. There was no joy in success that came so close to failure. He wanted relief, he needed relief, but he didn’t feel like he deserved it. He was slow, climbing the library’s marble stairs, thinking about punishment. Finch was waiting. He looked serious, somber. His jacket was off, his tie loosened.

“Come with me,” he said. John followed him, watching the uneven gait like he was the cause of it. He could feel his aura again, catch some scent. Finch must be relaxing control or the drugs were wearing off.

He was taken to the room with the bed. White linens, a blanket. A chair and a night stand; simple, plain. Personal to Finch. There was some sunlight, dulled by the construction shrouds and scaffolding.

“Please take off your jacket and sit down, Mr Reese.”

John did as he was asked, though it felt wrong.

He should be denied, or hurt, not shown to the bed where the omega took his naps, unless he was made to lie there without relief, reflecting on what he couldn’t have. He looked up at him, to gauge his intent. Finch was unbuttoning his vest. John couldn’t look away. It could be punishment, he thought. His cock was full and his blood surged, anticipating Finch’s nakedness. Would the omega show him his tits to taunt him? He was unbuttoning his shirt.

Not torture, not from Finch.

“You should punish me,” he said. He’d invite it. He deserved it.

“Why would I do such a thing?” His voice was gentle and John couldn’t bear it.

“I made the wrong call. Going after Calhoun. I shouldn’t have left you and the girl by yourselves.” The blue eyes blinked at him, the brows pushed together.

“You saved us,” he said.

“I was almost too late.”

He’d started unbuttoning again and the shirt was taken off. There was a tee-shirt under it. Thick white fabric hugging his upper body. The undershirt, he realized, was a scent-shield. Finch was lifting it off over his head, mussing his hair, showing every inch of skin, the outlines of his ribcage as he raised his arms, releasing a wash of pheromones. John was helpless.

“Take off your shoes and lie down.”

The way he was looking at him, admiring him, was a subtle punishment. The approval in his eyes burnished John, a soft cloth buffing the tarnish from the metal he was made of. It hurt where it touched the broken places, but he managed a tight smile.


	8. Harold Gives And Harold Takes Away

It was awkward for Harold to undress the alpha, to bend forward and remove the man’s clothes. Reese hesitated, then briskly assisted him. Shucking off his pants and handing them over.

“The shirt,” Harold told him as he draped the pants neatly over the chair.

Harold knew the alpha needed this, the need was plain, but his guarded expression made him feel like he was taking advantage. Making him undress, choosing to have intercourse with him; both unnecessary to see to his needs. Both prompted by Harold’s own desire. Reese seemed reluctant to look at him but unable to look away when Harold began to remove his own trousers.

He had to sit to ease the garments off a particular way.

Suddenly the alpha was off the bed and on his knees in front of him.

“I’ll help you,” he said. His face serious, apologetic, as if he’d made a mistake by allowing Harold to struggle with his clothes.

“Surely you realize I dress and undress myself everyday, Mr Reese.”

He said it as gently as he could, not to be scolding him. To soften it further, because the alpha looked so ill at ease, he added, “Thank you.”

Where had the man’s willfulness, his rebellious disregard for Harold’s status gone — was it really possible that he judged himself so harshly that it made him this abject? Harold wondered how Reese had been punished in the past.

His underwear. He got his panties down to his knees by the time the alpha had tended to the trousers and turned back. Harold saw him torn between looking down at the floor and looking at the object nestled in the crotch. It defied reason to Harold, but he accepted the fact that the thing he considered a slightly embarrassing necessity was something that carried an intense erotic charge for the alpha. Reese was once again on his knees in front of him.

Harold detached the pad.

“Is this something you want?” he asked him. He wanted to make a gesture that would prove he was not punishing him.

“Yes,” Reese answered quietly.

“Very well.” Harold held it out to him though it deeply offended his sense of decency. “It should be thrown away, but this time, you can have it.”

He hoped to see some hint of the impetuous, demanding Reese he’d been both shocked and excited by in their first encounters. What he got was … reverence. The alpha stroked the edges of the pad, as if to trace the curves of Harold’s thighs, he held it to his face and rubbed his mouth over it and that was more than the omega could stand. He reached out to take it away from him. “Honestly, Mr Reese, this is just … wrong.”

The alpha didn’t let go, looking up at Harold with a flash of defiance, still holding it pressed to his lips, his eyes dark. Harold relented. He certainly wasn’t going to play tug-of-war with it.

“Wouldn’t this be better,” Harold said, letting his underwear slide down his calves to the floor. He could feel the heat in his face, his pulse beat hard in his chest. He felt hot and exposed as he inched back on the bed and spread his legs. In an instant, broad hands were clutching his thighs and the alpha had given up the object of his obsession.

 

***

As a child John had been taught to respect omegas, along with the basics of saying, “please and thank you, and you’re welcome.” Experience taught that being polite was sometimes an empty exercise and not all omegas deserved respect.

His childhood lair was extensive and encompassed not only his family but all the families on the street where they lived. It was centered by two omegas, one a granny on his mother’s side, known to him as Baba Taft. This male omega was the quiet, slender mate of his revered alpha grandfather, John David Taft, after whom he was named. Baba was everything he’d been taught to believe about omegas. He was kind, generous to the children of his lair and giving of his time and attention not just to his lair but to the community. Baba spent a lot of time at the town’s Center and the clinics to share himself. He also oversaw a community garden that townspeople claimed was enriched by his aura.

Baba’s sister embodied many omegan traits that children weren’t taught but came to understand on their own. How it felt to be disciplined with a prod or a cane — treatment usually meted out to rowdy young alphas, but not exclusively. Gwendolyn Taft was a stern female omega. She chose not to take a mate, instead using various males, betas as well as alphas, during her heats, making no formal commitment to these partners. She owned the houses on their street and made a weekly round of visits. The family whose turn it was to host the visit, and sometimes a neighbor or two, would gather and usually there would be a meal. That was how she fulfilled her obligation to the lair unless she was giving favors. She had a female omega child, Jenna, a few years older than John, who followed closely in her footsteps and was expected to inherit the lair.

He tended to see omegas in their light. Even in the milk bars. A performer who poured attention toward the alphas was like Baba. One who gave nothing but scent was like Gwen.

Harold Finch was not easy to categorize. Formal and restrained, lacking a mate, these things said, Gwen. Finch had manipulated him, tricked him, things John couldn’t conceive of Baba doing. But he’d revealed a sweet generosity that reminded John of his loving grandparent, an omega who never punished beyond the buff of a flare.

The alpha was lost in worship at the source, in a reverie between the omega’s thighs, licking the plumped surfaces and fucking the cunt with his tongue. He felt the hint of a struggle and a tug at his hair.

“Mr Reese, please don’t put pressure on my legs.” He backed off instantly, realizing he’d been pushing the legs apart, forgetting the omega’s limits. Finch’s voice was breathy. “If you could hold from underneath, some support … would be good.”

Not told to stop. He cupped his hands under the thighs and saw relief suffuse the omega’s face.

He took this as permission to go on and felt free to suck the omega's cock. He was intent on drinking the nectar, but he also wanted to give pleasure. Omegas liked this. John had learned from his cousin Jenna, who’d cuffed him hard on the head if he sucked her too roughly or she felt his teeth. As a teenager she didn’t produce much juice but she liked to see the alphas compete for the privilege of getting their lips on her cock. He’d never been one of her favorites but he was strong, even as a kid.

If his memories of her weren’t all good ones, the harsh lessons she’d taught were paying off. He knew how to be gentle and coaxing, and Finch was caressing his head. A dizzying combination of comfort and pleasure.

His need was cresting with the promise of getting what he needed so close, his cock rigid to its roots, the knot swollen. Still, he managed to be gentle, helping Finch position himself on the towels, the pillow supporting his head and neck before he thrust inside him.

By the time John left him, Finch was sound asleep and the alpha was walking on air.

He retrieved the the trophy that he knew Finch didn’t really want him to have, that he’d discarded on the floor. He resisted the impulse to keep it, inhaling deeply to savor the scent and licking it a last time before wrapping it in tissues and putting it in the trash, as he knew the omega would prefer.

There was still work to be done. He needed to get his beta assigned to a new precinct where he could keep an eye on Carter. She would be difficult to recruit. Maybe impossible. Her record was spotless. If he could share Finch, life would be simpler. He needed to find a way that wouldn’t endanger or expose him.

He took a last look before going. The omega was peaceful, his features softened. His brow clear. His mouth looked particularly inviting and John thought about what it would feel like to kiss him.

What if Finch really was like Baba, an omega who chose an alpha mate. What if he were really his, not just in his thoughts but bonded.

Greedy, he told himself, turning away. It was time to get back to work. He needed to be smarter, sharper, and keep Finch safe so he would deserve the bounty he'd been given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited the chapter to change John's family name to one beginning with a T (as I believe I saw before Carter shredded the copy of his military service record.) Zaniida pointed out to me that I'd used Reese as John's family name. Oops! She kindly suggested I might have chosen to do so since this is an AU story. I thought I'd leave it that way but having had it pointed out, it tormented me until I changed it! :)


	9. The Milk Bar

Harold stood back after taping another photo to the work board. Sam Latimer. Reese was lost in thought, looking at the pictures. Harold was trying to keep his own thoughts centered, not drifting to the session they’d shared two days before. If Reese was still castigating himself for his perceived shortcomings, it no longer showed. He was assured in manner, contained.

The boundaries were holding for now, but if Harold closed his eyes and took a deep breath he could taste traces of the alpha’s scent. Something he was doing too often.

Reese was absorbed; serious about their latest number, a veteran named Joey Durban. He might even be a little too involved, Harold thought. Durban was mixed up with a dangerous robbery ring, headed by an older vet, the latest addition to the board.

“I say we gift wrap him and give him to the NYPD before someone winds up dead,” Harold said.

“Finch, the guy was a good soldier.” Reese was obviously sympathetic to this number, but Harold thought he was taking it too far.

“Don’t let your personal feelings warp your judgement. No one forced him to go robbing banks.” To him it seemed clear that Durban was taking a dark path.

Reese turned to look at him and Harold’s heartbeat sped up as the alpha studied him. His gaze was curious, speculative, as if he could sense where Harold’s mind had wandered. Harold turned and started walking away.

Am I running from him?

He forced himself to stop and look at Reese, determined to take a workmanlike tone. He was shocked to find the man had silently followed him, halving the distance between them. He stopped when Harold turned, as if they were playing a child’s playground game. Harold tried to ignore his excitement though he felt slick between his legs and his face was warm. He cleared his throat and schooled his voice, pretending there were no undercurrents, nothing going on but a discussion of the case between colleagues.

“Do we even know why he’s such a mess. He’s got a job, a pretty girlfriend, a good service record, and he’s throwing it all away. He’s going to end up in prison. Or dead.” He turned his back, moving toward his desk like it was an oasis of safety. He touched the surface.

“You’re right,” Reese said, standing right behind him; his tone was intimate and suggestive. He was leaning in even closer, practically whispering in Harold’s ear. “But … not every ex-soldier meets a reclusive billionaire.” The alpha was like a flame, and Harold a helpless marshmallow turning golden and melting inside. His breath caught when a strong arm circled his waist and the alpha’s other hand reached between his legs from behind, pressing his soaked pad up against him.

 

***

John couldn’t help but try. The omega had been sending him mixed signals all morning, like something fresh baked on a window sill, the scent wafting now and then on a stray breeze. He looked as good as he smelled, with his color high. John had caught the tail end of limpid gazes that made him feel admired … and aroused.

He expected the buff of a flare or a scolding when he trapped Finch by his desk, but didn’t get one. The omega was startled, a little shaky, but didn’t resist him. Up close he smelled even better and he didn’t stop John from feeling between his legs.

Deep in his groin the milk glands kicked in with his heightened state, but he was already hard. He didn’t need to be milked, he just wanted to fuck. He started unbuttoning the omega’s pants as if he had every right to. He slid his fingertips under the waistband of the panties, pushing everything down, baring smooth skin. Finch didn’t fight him, he was shivery but braced himself on the desk, leaning forward on his arms.

John saw the shine of slick on the naked thighs. He didn’t linger on his knees to taste, to play, to inspect the glistening pad. No time — Finch could change his mind any second. This wasn’t part of their agreement. Not guaranteed to him.

Powerfully stimulated by the omega’s submission, John was dazed with lust as he rubbed himself on the puffy pink slit, sliding in the moisture, finding his way in. He stroked slowly deeper and deeper, as deep as he could get without tying him.

John tried to make it last but the sounds the omega made when he came, the gasps and soft whimpers, the way he pushed back at him with his soft butt; it was too exciting to last. 

 

***

Harold felt weak, and embarrassed by his behavior as he regained his senses, feeling the alpha disengage from him. He heard Reese straightening himself, zipping up his pants. Harold tried to unbend and stretch out his arms but his body was slow to respond. His trousers, pooled around his ankles seemed a million miles away, an unattainable goal. All the while, there was undeniable sweetness inside him, echoes of coming still quivering in his belly. He pushed against the desk with a groan and got nearly vertical.

“Hold on,” Reese said. “You’re not steady.”

Harold silently suffered the indignity of having the alpha pulling his panties up his legs. He winced a little when they were in place, the pad was still lodged in the crotch. It felt chilled and sticky against his hot body. At least it would catch most of what was now dripping out of him. Reese was slower pulling the pants up and threw a little more wood on the fire of Harold’s mortification, pressing his face against his ass, nosing at his crotch from behind like an ill-mannered dog, before covering him with the trousers.

“I can do the buttons,” Harold said. His voice had half disappeared. Get a grip, he told himself. It’s just … sex. Something adults do with one another. He took a deep breath. “I think I’d like to get cleaned up a little now, Mr Reese. Surely, you have some business to attend to.” He turned around slowly, felt himself blushing but ready to face him. The man’s expression was serene, affectionate.

“I should meet up with Durban. See if I can find out what’s eating at him. You okay, Finch?”

“Yes, I’m all right, thank you.”

For a moment Harold thought the alpha was going to kiss him, his eyes focusing so long on his mouth. Then he looked up to meet his eyes, offered one of his half-smiles, and nodded.

“Okay. I’ll check in later.” He left, not looking back.

Harold was able to collect his wits gradually. He made his way to the bathroom. There he could wash up and change his underwear and try not to dwell on what he’d just done.

 

***

 

John didn’t see a way to safeguard Durban without infiltrating the gang. Finch had been against it from the beginning but John needed to be there when the robberies went down. He knew he might be getting too involved and could feel Finch’s impatience. The omega had been quiet, distant since the quick fuck at the desk, but there was no punishment.

John gave him time, made space and didn’t push. But he didn’t forget how good it was. Or regret it. He could afford to be patient until the end of the job when he’d have Finch again and the leisure to enjoy him. 

The gang was in deep but one of the guys was in a lot deeper than the rest. A twitchy little fucker named Straub who was suspicious of John from the start. It was the last job, whether they knew it or not. John had agreed with Finch that they’d call in the cops after this one.

En route, Straub collected their phones as usual, but this time he made a point of demanding John’s earpiece. There was no way around it. He lost contact with Finch.

They’d been hired to break into a police evidence locker. Insane, but it carried a big payoff. Latimer had supplied them with the info, the weapons, and the mil-spec radios. As always, they were masked.

John almost blew his cover when they stormed the place and he saw his little omega crouching on the dirty linoleum floor with his hands in the air. What the fuck did Finch think he was doing? He grabbed him up, as roughly as he dared, covering by pretending to manhandle and threaten him.

“It’s a trap, Latimer set you up,” Finch whispered. John flared uncontrollably, torn between the need to protect him and the job at hand.

There was little he could do but leave Finch cowering on the floor. He had to try to get the gang out of there as fast as he could.

It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t save Straub from Latimer, or the one they called Teddy. He did get Durban out. The mastermind of it all, the one John wanted to punish — Latimer, was dead by the time he got to him. Someone else had been there first. All of it to steal a piece of evidence from a cold case.

It was a long haul and too many bodies at the end. Carter, the growing thorn in his side, had gotten in on the investigation, searching for him. He’d been sloppy, a partial print at the bank job. She knew what she was doing and she was determined.

John was angry at himself and enraged by Finch’s behavior. The anger erupted every time he thought of him at the scene, so vulnerable. Was anyone fooled by that beta disguise?

Finch was held up, answering questions for the police. Carter, again. John texted him to say he’d see him when another number came up. He was heading for a milk bar, unwilling to see Harold Finch in the state he was in.

 

***

Harold was tired but he finished his case notes before preparing himself for bed. He’d decided to stay at the library, even though the alpha was not coming to him. He splashed his face at the sink, in what had been the library’s public bathroom. An impersonal space, lined with sinks and toilet stalls. He kept a stash of toiletries there, a few emergency clothing items, among them a robe, pajamas and slippers.

He felt weary to his bones. Reese was not coming. Somewhat of a relief — he didn’t feel like he had the energy to deal with him. But it also disturbed him. He had to wonder why.

There was an emptiness to closing the case without him. He brewed a cup of chamomile tea and leafed through an issue of Birder’s World until he felt sleepy enough for bed. As it sometimes happened, in the dark his eyes opened, sleep receding. He thought of the alpha straddling a machine somewhere, maybe watching a professional dancer in real or induced heat. And he felt … like he might cry.

Unacceptable. He turned on his side, tucking his knees up, hugging the extra pillow. He shut his eyes and practiced a calming breath. This was not a tragedy. Their work would go on, that was what mattered.

 

***

John downed a drink at the bar while he waited. The air in the place smelled like omega, but not hot. A soothing scent. It was never a good idea to fan the flames of alphas waiting for a milking. When his number was up he headed down the hall to the booths, the light over a door signaled one was ready.

He felt detached. This was something he’d done many times. Usually he was more eager, wondering what he’d see, anticipating how he’d feel. Machines were a little different from place to place, but like gym equipment, the bells and whistles might vary but they all worked pretty much the same way. Adjusting for height and angle. John quickly disrobed, customized the seat (he liked to tilt forward) and closed his dick into the sterile milker. It soaked him in lube and formed up around his erection, shaping to the contour of his swollen knot. The curtained window in front of him opened. The booth’s sharp tang of disinfectant was overtaken by the smell of a ripe omega and he groaned, gripping the handles, rocking into the machine.

A live performer with augmented tits. Heavily made up; wearing a harness that accentuated her distended mushroom-like little cock and small balls. She strolled from window to window, not too close, but bending over at each one in turn to show the alphas how her cunt was plugged with a dildo. She was rouged to look like she was in heat, but John didn’t think the scent he was inhaling was hers. He closed his eyes. Whatever the essence was that they were pumping into his booth, was doing its job.

In his head … was Finch. In heat. Their bodies were locked together and John was pumping endless streams of milky cum into him. He was sucking on the tender patch of the omega’s shoulder, biting him, owning him.

It took a while to come down from the high when he was finished, but the grip was turning cool around his cock and the lights were coming up in the booth. He didn’t know when the curtain had closed. It was time to get dressed and get out. His anger was gone. His body was drained. When he conjured up the image of Finch at the robbery scene … his heart ached but there was no more rage.


	10. The Coffee Shop And The Judge

Who would suspect in New York City that there were places close by as serene as Oyster Bay, as beautiful as Montauk. John spent some time gazing at the water, refreshed by the spectacle of sea and sky after dealing with Andrew Benton. The rogue alpha was a predator. John had no qualms about killing him.

He’d given him a fighting chance, more than Benton had ever given the victims he drugged and raped.

What mattered to him was that Megan Tillman could live her life free of committing an act that would have destroyed her.

The sun was sparkling on the water. The reasons John found himself in these beautiful settings would seem grim, seen from the outside. But not to him. He was coming to life; awakening to purpose and beauty.

Working for Finch was stranger than he could have imagined. The mysteries of the numbers. The mystery of his boss. It was time to get back to the city. No need for the omega to learn the details of Benton’s death. John had turned off his phone to spare him. Now he turned it back on.

“Done here, Finch. Can I see you?”

He could go back to the milk bar. Finch certainly paid him enough to afford it. The omega’s quiet had persisted since that impulsive fuck and John had avoided him after the last case, too angry to see him. All told, it had been a while since he’d touched him. He shouldn’t have to ask. He was owed this. There were a few beats of silence before the omega answered him.

“Yes. I’ll … meet you at the library.”

John smiled a little at his phone after hanging up, before slipping it into his pocket. He was feeling the buildup, the thickening sensation of need. It felt good, a long way from becoming intense enough to cause discomfort.

 

***

 

Relief swept through Harold and it took him a moment to answer the alpha. He’d been trying to come to terms with a changed relationship, one without the physical connection he now craved, trying to adjust his expectations.

He felt he hardly recognized himself of late. He’d always resisted physical relationships.

He’d been isolated when he was young. His shy beta father raised him on his own, maintaining that their lair of two was sufficient. Harold did have some contacts at his rural school. He fulfilled his obligations along with Lassiter’s small omegan population. Attending assemblies, spending time in the school’s infirmary and the town’s medical center, but he didn’t mix socially. 

He was too far ahead of his schoolmates academically. Physically, sexually he lagged too far behind them. He was ill at ease with his fellow omegas. He found them cliquish and unkind. He devoted his free time to studying birds in the fields around his house, working on cars with his dad, or as a teenager, obsessed with building computers. It was the latter, his insatiable need to explore the newborn internet that had brought his quiet life crashing down around him.

At MIT, as Harold Wren, he’d met Nathan Campbell and established what would be his primary connection to the world. Nathan was a tall, lively blond alpha, one of a half dozen assigned to Harold, along with a dozen betas, to form a student pseudo-lair. Nathan was as easy-going as Harold was reserved and he quickly asserted himself as top watchdog. He controlled and kept the house in line, thwarting any sexual overtures toward the demure omega — while making his own interest cheerfully known.

Harold had shied away from sex, even with Nathan, but had learned to milk him by hand and mouth, out of gratitude to him for keeping order. Even then Harold had been out of step with people’s expectations. He wanted no lair, no pups, no mate, no lovers. He didn’t relish his power over others or enjoy lauding his status. If anything, he envied betas their freedom.

He and Nathan became close friends, a relationship that continued through Nathan’s marriage to Olivia Ingram, a much sought-after female omega of a powerful business lair in New York.

Harold forced his thoughts away from the past, away from Nathan, from Olivia. John would be there soon. He turned down the bed and spread the towels. The room was a comfortable temperature so he removed his robe.

Was it too explicit to be lying naked in bed, waiting? Better than having the alpha undress him, the danger he’d fixate on the sanitary napkin. Harold had done some research, looking for evidence of this kind of behavior among alphas. He’d found more than he bargained for under the heading of alpha sexual obsessions. The best advice seemed to be — out of sight, out of mind. Harold certainly wasn’t going to use negative reinforcement or behavior modification. He’d rather let Reese play with the pad than shock him each time he touched it. Worse yet, to make him hold it in his mouth while he caned him.

 

***

The omega was waiting for him. Naked. In bed. John hid his smile as he got out of his own clothes.

“You smell … soapy,” he told him as he slid under the sheet, getting close to him. The omega frowned. There was something incredibly appealing about the many ways he expressed affront. John liked his frowns, liked to provoke them.

“That is because, like any thoughtful person, I wash myself,” Finch said. “Would you prefer I didn’t?” Quickly adding, “Don’t answer that.”

John grinned, and shivered with pleasure at making skin to skin contact. The omega was cool under the light cover and it felt wonderful to slide his hot cock along a silky thigh. He nuzzled the side of his neck, picking up the scent that no amount of soap could wash away, breathing it in deep.

“I want to kiss you, Finch.” He touched his lips to his neck, his jaw, his cheek, and paused to look in his eyes. There was no protest, and the lips looked so tender, the mouth so inviting that John went for it. The omega opened softly to the kiss, taking him in and caressing him. John closed his eyes, the pleasure of it sinking through him, gathering in his cock. He creamed the omega’s belly with the first stream of warm cum.

He didn’t want to stop kissing him, but he needed to turn him on his side and fuck him.

If they were mated, he thought, rocking into the bliss of his omega’s cunt, he could be satisfying his hungry mouth by nursing at the forbidden place where Finch’s neck curved into his shoulder. The thought made him dizzy with yearning and he sucked at his own bottom lip to control his desire.

 

***

 

Harold was deeply sated. He slept for hours after the alpha left him, a towel tucked between his legs, an extra blanket covering him. Sleep was sweet, badly needed. He woke in the early evening, slowly dressed and made his way to the closest safe house, thanking the heavens that there was no new number. His phone alerted him that Reese was tracking him but he made no evasive efforts, fairly certain the alpha had already discovered Harold Crane’s apartment building.

He considered phoning to invite him in but that would be a step too far. For now it was enough that Reese had come back to him and he would continue to have the physical relationship that had become so vital, so quickly.

 

***

John was making headway on a number of fronts. A little blackmail went a long way and he’d “convinced” a precinct captain to install Fusco at the Eighth, where he’d be able to keep an eye on Carter. He’d also figured out a way to bring Lionel closer into the fold. It was expensive. Not something he’d have done for a guy like him under normal circumstances.

The best part was telling his boss about it the next day at breakfast, after following him, unseen, to a coffee shop. Finch said nothing when John slid smoothly into the booth across from him. He continued quietly eating while John explained what he wanted for Fusco.

“I know it’s pearls before swine, Finch, but if you won’t take him in, I’ve got to give him something.”

The omega frowned at him. “I’m having difficulty imagining your detective in a teahouse, Mr Reese.”

“Weekly privileges. The guy can get a massage, hit the sauna. Have tea, whatever the hell it is they do in there. Make the other clients nervous.”

The more John thought about it, the better he liked it. Tea houses, staffed by omegas, were an urban phenomenon. Frequented mostly by high-placed betas doing business away from home. The price tag was steep, but it would keep Fusco out of trouble. John would give anything to see him in there — the proverbial bull in a china shop, but tea houses were off limits to alphas. Like milk bars were to betas. As far as John knew there was no sex involved, just … comfort. All nurture.

“I’ll consider it,” Finch said, still looking doubtful.

“So,” John asked, “what’s good here?”

“That won’t work, Mr Reese.”

“What won’t?”

“Your interrogation technique,” Finch said, glancing up him disapprovingly.

“What’s good here? It’s an innocent question.” He hid his smile.

“No question is ever innocent from you. You’re trying to determine whether I come here often. Armed with that knowledge you’ll try to figure out where I live.”

“You’re paranoid, Finch.”

“With good reason.” Very good reason, John thought, though he’d already identified the safe house. No harm in fishing for more.

“Maybe I just don’t know what’s good here so I’m asking the regular.” Finch started gathering up his things, giving him a look that said he knew better. He slid the menu across the table to him and tapped it for emphasis.

“Enjoy your meal, Mr Reese,” he said, getting up from the table. John couldn’t help grinning, watching him make his way out. His grin disappeared when he opened the menu and found himself looking at a picture. Their next number. Fucking Finch. He’d known he was following him the whole time. He’d planted the photo to tell him so.

The photo Finch left him was of Judge Samuel Gates. John learned this back at the library, after his solitary breakfast at the coffee shop.

Gates was a sweet-faced omega made of steely stuff. He’d come from Boston with his kid after losing his husband to cancer. He was slowly building a lair for himself and the pup. The hardest part of the case proved to be getting the omega to trust him. The first thing Gates did when John approached him was shock him with a prod. Not set high enough to cause real damage, but it was tough to take from somebody he was trying to help.

The case was a maze of murder and money laundering that led somewhere all too familiar. A shootout … lives hanging on John’s gun and the speed of his trigger.

He didn’t think of himself as sentimental but when it was all over he felt a visceral need for the sight of the judge with his pup … in the sunshine. To be assured that something normal was left to them. He tailed them to a park on a morning that was almost summery warm. The judge caught sight of him, so John chanced the contact.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Gates said.

“You don’t need to say anything,” John told him. “I’d prefer it, actually.” They both watched Sam Jr. practicing his moves in the distance with a soccer ball. Much better to remember him this way than battered by rain, in the clutches of a murderous thug.

“Look,” the omega said, “I don’t know exactly what you do, or how you’re doing it. But I know that if people ever find out … when they find out … there won’t be anything I can do to protect you.”

“Go play with your son.” John wasn’t looking for help, or thanks, just to see something good had come of the violence and chaos.

Afterwards, he found Finch at the coffee shop. The omega asked him about his meeting with Gates.

“What did he say?”

“That we don’t need to worry. He might even help us someday.”

“I was listening to your conversation, Mr Reese.” John figured he had been but liked getting him to admit it. He was beginning to think the omega was always listening. It made him feel … good.

“And I was reading between the lines.”

Finch closed his book and looked up.

“I suppose only time time will tell which one of us is right.”

He was getting ready to go. Before he could leave, John said, “Thank you.” He hadn’t planned it, hadn’t known he was going to say it, but it suddenly needed to be said. It was partly the scene he’d just witnessed in the park. Knowing he’d made that possible. It was partly being in the sunny restaurant, with the person who was becoming the center of his life, however much that center was resisting him.

“I beg your pardon?” the omega said, pausing.

“For giving me a job.” John looked up to meet the wide blue eyes. The omega’s expression softened. He blinked the way he did when he was processing information. Then holding his book in front of his chest, he lay his other hand on the menu, as he had days before, and slid it toward John.

“Try the eggs Benedict, Mr Reese. I’ve had them many times. I’ll see you at the library.” Then he slowly got up and made his way out.

John opened the menu, expecting to find another photo. There was nothing. Which made him smile. His secretive omega had given him a gift. A small step, but in the right direction.

***

Joss Carter took the time one morning, after seeing her pup off to school, to double back to the house for a private talk with Luke, the anchor of her lair. He was in the garden. It spanned the three backyards behind their houses. This real estate was a rich holding that her omega pup, Taylor, and his cousin Janelle would eventually inherit and oversee.

The detective had separated years ago from her husband Paul, but not from his family. Luke Carter’s aura permeated her home. He’d stood alongside her to make clear to his troubled brother that he wasn’t welcome until he dealt with the drinking and violence, got treatment for the PTSD that plagued him when he got out of the army. Luke’s healing power buoyed them but Paul’s disturbance ran too deep for him to repair.

The omega was surveying the kale beds. Joss loved the garden and for a moment her question took a backseat to visions of the dark, leafy greens in a hearty soup.

“Ready to harvest, I think, but you’re not here to work in the garden, are you?” Luke said. “Should we go for a second cup of coffee?” They had seen each other at breakfast, surrounded by family. He was asking if she wanted privacy to talk. The usual helpers were gathering, including a couple of neighbors, trading garden work for fresh vegetables.

“Maybe. I’m not sure if it’s worth taking you away from the kale.” She had no idea how simple or complex the answer to her question would be, just that she hadn’t wanted to ask in front of Taylor.

“What’s on your mind, Joss?”

“Why would an omega want to pass for beta?” The image was clear in her mind. The little law clerk at the scene of the Center Street robbery. The paperwork identified him as beta. He wasn’t, she was sure of it after the second interview. She couldn’t decide what, if anything, to do about it. There was no law against it, but it made no sense. Joss didn’t like things she couldn’t explain at the scene of a crime.

 

***

Fusco felt like he was definitely coming up in the world. Homicide Task Force at the Eighth, and the unhinged alpha wasn’t just busting his balls for a change — though he was still creepy as fuck, the way he always snuck up behind him.

I can be good police, Fusco thought, proud of coming up with Coldfield Holdings, a key piece of info that helped Carter’s homicide case and the recovery of a kid.

Carter was no joke to keep tabs on. She put him through the ringer first thing. Questions about why he was there, rumors she’d heard about what he might be running away from. Still, he thought he could win her over. And now here he was, sitting pretty in a sauna with a bunch of sweaty rich guys, his body eased all over by the magic hands of Olga. What a babe, even if she’d deflated his boner with a swift flare. This was a high-class joint. Nothing Olga could do about the fantasies brewing in his head. He glanced down at the jaunty angle of his towel and grinned. He’d take care of it later when he got back to the barracks. The Eighth had a great deal for singles and nobody knew him there.

He hadn’t felt this good in a long, long time. And to top it off, Wonder Boy had gift-wrapped a huge bust for him and Carter. Sweet.

Damn, the air in this place smelled good.


	11. Jealousy

Harold was quietly, and he hoped invisibly, suffering the torments of hell. The cause of his pain, their latest number, Zoe Morgan. She was a powerful and very, very beautiful omega.

“She’s a fixer,” Reese said. “She does favors, for a price.”

Reese had been filling in for her driver. Harold had just broken into her apartment and they were watching her from the shadows of her tree-lined street. Harold had been aching all evening as he listened to the alpha engage with her. With effort, he controlled his dismay at the fluid motion of her long legs climbing the stairs to her brownstone.

“Who’d want to take her out?” Harold asked.

“Who wouldn’t,” Reese replied, still watching her, meaning something else entirely.

It was agony for Harold to see the look in his eyes; he seemed mesmerized by her. And why shouldn’t he be. He wasn’t bound to Harold. All they had was an arrangement. Morgan could conceivably offer a better one and … a healthy body that could wrap itself around Reese’s body and … Don’t follow that road, he told himself.

His salvation was focusing on the case.

As it turned out, the apartment he’d searched was staged. He should have realized it when he sensed it was barely inhabited. At the time he’d just considered it a sign she was a busy person who spent little time at home. He’d found a stashed gun, but all the personal touches were fake. The jazz records, a detail he’d fed Reese to use, to try to ingratiate himself with her (though it baffled him that anyone who laid eyes on the alpha would need any other inducement.) Jazz was clearly not to her taste, judging by her dismissive reaction.

He never discovered where Morgan really lived. She owned a lot of real estate and Harold found evidence of a far-reaching, hidden lair. She had her people stashed all over the city, a network she used to gain access to the secrets of the rich and powerful, the people who ran the city. She was the one they turned to, to clean up their messes.

Harold was terrified that she’d steal his alpha to add to her stable. Reese flirted with her outrageously, albeit in his understated way. She shot him down at every opportunity — until he saved her life. Then she played with him, flirting back.

As relieved as he was that her life had been saved, he knew that the alpha must be charged up by the fighting, the car chase and gun violence. He expected any minute to hear her offer to take care of him.

 

***

 

Finch was jealous. It made John want to bite him and lick him, fall to his knees and rub his face in his crotch. God bless Zoe Morgan. She’d cranked Finch’s voltage up so high he was burning, a little furnace of possessive heat. John fanned the flames every chance he got and basked in the glow.

It was crazy. He’d have to be insane to trade what he had to be part of her stable of alphas, competing for favors from an omega who was as hard and calculating as she was beautiful. Her scent was sharp and vaguely artificial. He suspected she augmented. Lucky for him, Finch didn’t smell it, and couldn’t see past her long legs and expertly painted face.

Jealous. His Finch, who was much more beautiful, with his elegant features and a world of wisdom in his eyes. More powerful, but soft, and good and deliciously fuckable.

John was so turned on by the omega’s badly hidden, possessive fever, that he had to go dig through the trash in the library bathroom until he found a discarded napkin, folded and wrapped carefully in toilet paper. There wasn’t much moisture left but it smelled and tasted like cunt, like peaches dashed with salt, like Finch.

Closed into one of the stalls, he rubbed it on his mouth, under his nose, as he stroked himself, reliving how he'd thrust his tongue inside him, how he’d fucked him. Then he spit on the tired, nearly shredded little thing, to wake it up, and he used it on his dick to finish. When he was recovered enough, breathing normally, he carefully wrapped it, now soaked in his cum, and put it back where he’d found it.

He felt a little guilty, not much, when he came out to find the omega intent on the flash drive he’d gotten from Zoe.

“I’m working on the audio,” Finch explained. “The static suggests it was made on an old PCS cell network. Making the recording at least two years old.” John listened though he was frankly more absorbed by the sight of Finch than hearing the recording.

“I didn’t know static had a vintage,” he said.

“I did manage to find a match on the woman’s voice.”

He got up and John followed him to another work station. Trying to pay attention. “I compared it against video from social networking sites, corporate press. 268 possible matches, 6 who lived in New York. Only one,” he said, calling up footage. “Who worked at Virtanen Pharmaceuticals.”

A promo video. A pretty young woman singing her company’s praises.

“Dana Miller,” John said, impressed. “Lawson’s mistress was an office romance. Nice work, Finch.” The omega did not seem proud of his discovery.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to congratulate me. It’s not the first time I’ve heard Dana Miller’s name.” He was moving away, toward the crazy quilt wall of printouts, clippings, photographs; the history of his work on the machine’s numbers.

“Six months ago, the machine gave me her number. I wasn’t able to help her. Newspaper said she died of a brain aneurysm.” He carried over a clipping and handed it to John, who could feel the omega’s pain and frustration. “She was 27 years-old. As you know, the machine doesn’t see accidents.”

The weight of Finch’s burden, the numbers, and how he’d suffered failures suddenly felt very real to John. It sobered him and he swore to himself he would be the strength the omega needed.

He was not happy to see what Finch planned next.

It wasn’t another beta disguise. It was a new identity that Finch assumed. An omega, Harold Partridge. Partridge’s suit was beautifully cut, like all of Finch's clothes, but very slim. The vest was tailored to shape his small breasts, not disguise them. John was amazed to see he’d polished his manicured nails with a buffing compound to make them shine. He’d dabbed his lips with a subtly colored gloss and styled his hair. More startling was the object in his hand. Finch caught him staring at it, a slim, decoratively carved walking stick.

“Turkish, cherry wood,” Finch said, of the cane. “A prop only, Mr Reese. I would never use it to strike someone, though, no doubt Partridge would.” He said it a little apologetically, as if John were anything but dazzled by him.

“I’m going with you,” he insisted.

“No need,” he said. “Partridge has a service account. A professional escort. I’ll be fine. I need you to monitor things here.”

Payback, John noted grimly, is a bitch.

He wanted to flare at the thought of him, sparkling like a little jewel, in the care of another alpha. Not a damn thing he could do about it.

It was challenging to play Finch’s role, to listen. His worry for him made him hyper alert to every word exchanged, every tap of the cane that tracked his uneven footsteps. John began to relax when he was in place, marveling at his smooth handling of the corporate killers. 

He liked this Partridge persona. Close to Finch, but with a dangerous edge. He didn’t get to glimpse it again, until the very end. An even more brilliant performance.

John was high by then, soaring on the rush of taking down Lawson, of saving Morgan’s bacon a second time. Saved her, in spite of how she’d almost handed his ass to Keller’s alpha, wielding a syringe full of death. Not John’s death. Not this time.

Flush with victory, he’d texted Finch: Got FDA Report. All the evidence they needed to prove the company's drug trials were fixed.

His earpiece activated, he was in time to hear Partridge’s triumph. There was ambient restaurant noise, the distant clink of crystal behind the gravel of Keller’s voice. And then the soft tones of his omega. John was captivated.

“Actually I’ve sold my shares in Virtanen. I had a tip that the price is about to take a nosedive.“

The alpha’s pride flared, knowing he’d fed him what he needed to take down a killer.

“Tip? What tip?”

“That senior management is about to have some very serious legal problems. In fact, I took my initial investment … and I shorted your company to the tune of a half billion shares.”

“If you’re betting against me you clearly don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

It’s Keller, John thought, who doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.

 

***

“Oh, I know exactly what kind of man I’m dealing with,” he said. “And I know you don’t care who you hurt to get what you want.”

He lay the photo of Dana Miller on the sterling tip tray. “I know the only thing you do care about is money. So that’s what I’m going to take from you. Your money. All of it. You were right, Mr Keller. Thanks to you, I never will have to invest in another company.”

***

John let Finch have his privacy to undress in the bathroom, but made note that a fresh pad was probably being deposited in the trash. Like a daily miracle, he thought, with a smirk he didn’t bother to hide since he was lying on the bed by himself, waiting.

Finch emerged in his fluffy white robe, looking happy. The way his eyes traveled possessively over John’s naked body, the remembered heat of his jealousy, these things fed the alpha’s pride; made him feel worthy and excited. There was so much wrong with him, so many things the omega overlooked. But in this moment he was proud of the good things he’d accomplished for Finch. Beautiful Finch, who often ate eggs Benedict at the Lyric Coffee Shop, who was the smartest person he’d ever known, who admired him and did not want another omega to have him.

“I thought I was going to lose you, for sure,” he said, untying his robe.

“Really?” John held the bed towel in place as Finch carefully stretched out beside him. “You thought I would take off after Zoe.” He ran his hand flat over the tender skin of the omega’s belly, watching his breathing, inhaling his scent. He couldn’t even pretend he’d been tempted to stray. “That’s … crazy. But maybe you should think about how you can keep me, Finch. For good.”


	12. The Witness And The Gym

Harold anxiously assessed the scene as he neared the ferry terminal. He didn’t want to look for the past but his eyes scanned for an idling white cargo van. There were no crowds, there was no tall blond man smiling and waving to him. He approached the lone figure at the dock, his own beta, Detective Fusco. The man was still a virtual stranger to him. He looked battered and was spitting blood.

“You believe me now!” Fusco demanded. He had wants, he had needs, Harold felt the pull of them but could only apologize.

“I’m sorry, Detective.”

He’d been wrong to mistrust him. He shouldn’t have suspected him, but he didn’t really know this man. He’d been too afraid for Reese and the man he’d still thought was an innocent witness.

Fusco reached out to grab the handkerchief Harold had taken from his pocket. The omega’s attention was already shifting to search for the alpha. He saw the tall figure striding up the gangway, his anger evident long before he was close enough for Harold to read his face. Reese didn’t meet his eyes, looking past him at Fusco.

“Nice to see you, Lionel. Your suspect is tied to the railing.” He kept walking.

Fusco looked disgusted and said to Harold, “Tell him, you’re welcome.”

Reese had gone a distance and stopped to allow Harold to catch up, though he radiated resistance.

“We couldn’t have known about Charlie,” Harold said. “The machine found a man who was targeted for death. We just didn’t know he was also a killer.”

“It’s my fault he’s out there, Finch.”

“It’s not yours alone.” The alpha’s aura tasted of shame and anger. Nothing Harold said seemed to have any impact. He watched him stalk off at a pace he couldn’t match.

It occurred to him as he stood alone, with the sound of gulls overheard and a distant siren drawing closer, that he’d just experienced the first assembly of his lair. Accidental, abrupt and uncomfortable. Both of his lessers in a state of distress and he’d done nothing to comfort or nurture either one. He was heavily shielded and his last dose of suppressants hadn’t worn off yet, but even so, he’d lacked the words or gestures that even a beta might have made to a friend.

Harold headed back to the library with no expectation that Reese would come to him, reaffirmed in his belief that he was better suited to interacting with computers than with people.

 

***

John didn’t go to the milk bar, even though he was feeling the pressure. He didn’t go to Finch. He went to a gym and spent hours working out, getting into the ring whenever someone showed up willing to fight him. For a while it worked. He stopped thinking. But he couldn’t fight forever.

Finch was no longer the only omega he’d ever met who passed for beta.

“You remind me of him,” he’d told Elias.

John finally hit the showers. He’d been fooled. He needed to get past it but his impatience with himself had side servings of outrage and betrayal. Fucking omegas who could hide their power, suck you in and … use you. Not Finch, he thought. But was it true? What did he really know about his eccentric boss. Constantly suppressing, hiding, so gentle-seeming, but … John had only gotten the full force of his aura once, at the outset when Finch was trying to recruit him.

His reservoirs were full and his cock was heavy and sensitive. It would be climbing his belly soon if he didn’t do something about it. The guy closest to him under the shower heads snorted and flared him with a look of disgust, not liking John’s smell. John bled a warning that dared him to do something about it. The challenger backed down.

On the other side of John, a small female alpha stepped under the spray and started soaping up. She barely reached John's shoulder height but she’d given him a tough fight in the ring. She grunted an acknowledgment at him and offered a slight dip of her head.

John nodded, accepting her. She was a damn good fighter and had an uncanny calm, even in the heat of attack. Someone like that would be good to have at your back.

They didn't need to jockey for status, having tested each other in the ring. As he scrubbed himself and rinsed down, her even-keeled energy beside him helped steady his thoughts. When he shut off the water, she shot a glance at his dick and gave him a bland look.

"No joke, dude, you need to get some."

"I'm on it."

He still had Yogorov’s phone and when he left the gym he texted Finch, *Need to see you.* Then he tossed it. They had an agreement and Finch would honor it.

***

Harold didn’t undress, didn’t wait for Reese in bed, too unsure of the alpha’s mood. 

Reese had said something to him a few days before, that kept coming back to him. A playful remark, maybe. Definitely teasing. Joking or not, Reese had suggested that Harold should find a way to keep him for good. He’d been too surprised to respond and the moment had passed.

It was imperative to keep Reese. The alpha might consider his effort with this number a failure, but Harold thought he’d succeeded spectacularly. Even if it was true that the man they saved was a potential killer. Who knew what good there might be in Carl Elias. It wasn’t for Harold, or for Reese to decide. In this instance, Elias had been the victim, not the perpetrator.

Harold needed him to do this work. The other reasons he needed him, those he wasn’t ready to discuss aloud yet. He had spent some time researching contracts, a variety of binding agreements. Of course, the most obvious way to bind him … was to mate. It was both unlikely and unrealistic to think the alpha would agree to it or that he himself was equal to laying himself so bare and open to another human being.

He was reviewing contract language in an article contrasting binding agreements with the mating bond, when he heard the soft sound of Reese on the stairs and quickly blanked his screen, unnerved by being taken unawares. The new phone and earpiece for him were ready, waiting on the desk. He’d soon be able to track him again.

“You look … tired,” Harold said. Reese vaguely shrugged, heading straight for him. He reached down and pushed Harold’s keyboard aside. “What are you doing?” Harold asked him, though it was becoming obvious. He rolled his chair back as the alpha insinuated himself in front of him.

“Just this,” he said, unbuckling, unzipping. He didn’t remove his trousers, he pulled his cock free of his pants and sat back against the desk. “You’ll need to get a little closer, Finch.”

 

***

John groaned at the first touch of the lips, the tongue brushing over the head of his cock. There was a twinge of almost pain behind his balls as the sacs opened, urged by Finch’s massaging fingertips.

“Damn, you’re good,” John murmured, closing his eyes. The touch of his fingers was tender and precise, pressing in circular motions over the embedded sacs -- where his cunt would be, if he had one. Finch's mouth was soft and moist and welcoming. The other hand stroked his rigid shaft, damp with the moisture that escaped his lips. John briefly fought how adored this made him feel, all the power of the omega bent to the core of his need. He floated in ecstasy giving up his milk, pleasure spreading from his cock through his body.

His fears, his anger and resistance were nothing by the time it ended in spasms of coming, wringing the last of his milk with his sperm.

The omega’s face was flushed, his lips looked swollen. John could smell his bedeviling scent and feel the caress of his aura. Finch sat back. He pushed his glasses up his nose and it made John grin a little to realize he’d been wearing them the whole time. But the grin was short-lived as he thought of why he was wearing them, the peremptory way he’d pushed him to service him.

“Sorry,” he said, finding his voice, zipping himself back into his pants. He got up from the desk and shifted the keyboard he’d shoved out of his way back into the position it should be. The screen lit up and he stared at it, uncomprehending for a moment but something like a suppressed squeal from Finch make him take more notice. When the omega’s hand darted for the keyboard John caught him by the wrist.

“The Relative Merits of Binding Versus Bonding,” he read aloud.

“Oh … “ Finch said. John let go of his hand and the omega blanked the screen. He was blushing and his lips were pressed in a frown that said he was deeply embarrassed. John was excited. He knew he’d stumbled on something, something Finch wanted to hide. Something good.

“I do feel tired,” he told his distraught omega. “How about you come lie down with me.”

 

***

Barely a word, just his need, right in Harold’s face. The alpha’s swirling emotions were plain to him. There was hurt, there was fear, and he was angry. But his need was clear. Harold was not offended by this rash behavior. He was grateful. Grateful he’d come to him, grateful to taste him and give him relief.

It was powerfully arousing for him to suck and drink down the milk. The wordless communion was better than anything they could have said to one another. Harold poured himself into the act and his own body responded. The least movement in the chair sent pleasure up through him from the pressure between his legs. Several times through the milking his muscles contracted in sweet ripples of coming and he had to take in deep draughts of air through his nose, it filled every sense receptor in his head with the smell of Reese.

When the alpha said, “Sorry,” Harold couldn’t respond. Not yet. His senses too scattered, his brain too logy with pleasure; his mouth unable to shape words.

Then the jostling of the keyboard lit the open window on his screen. Oh god, Reese was seeing the last article he’d looked at. Harold despaired of stopping him, his wrist caught in a strong grip. He still could barely speak. Then his hand was released and he shut down the screen. The alpha was staring at him and Harold readied himself to be taunted.

“… come lie down with me.” He missed the first words, hearing mainly the voice, low and affectionate. A register that was seductive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this chapter for content after Zaniida pointed out to me that I didn't need to separate the alphas into male and female showers and lockers at the gym!


	13. Ulrich Kohl

It was like dessert. The omega was dreamy-eyed and unresisting when John undressed him. The alpha liked thinking that it was his cock, his milk that had made him drunk and sweet and wet. He liked knowing Finch was thinking about ways to keep him.

A lot of things about his boss were mysterious, but not this. He might not know where Finch lived but he knew what he tasted like, knew what he looked like and felt like naked.

“You want to keep me,” John said, very entertained by the body open to his exploring fingers, his kisses. “You could brand me, Finch. That tends to discourage others. Some kind of bird image, I guess, since you won’t tell me your real name.” John moved up the omega’s body in reach of the soft tits. 

“You’re not serious,” Finch said.

“People still do it.” He knew he was already owned. Lock, stock and barrel. At this point Finch would have to work at getting rid of him.

“I think you know by now, it isn’t something I would do.” John did know it, which was why he would have accepted it.

“I could swear an oath,” he said.

“I’m not a branch of the armed services.”

“A cock ring with your imprint. Maybe a cage for my dick,” which he let Finch feel against his thigh. The thought of those options made him harder. The blue eyes looking up at him said — you’re teasing me.

“As you saw,” Finch said. “I was looking into contract terms. There’s a lot to consider.” 

“There’s something …” an inner voice warned him not to finish the sentence, but he did, “ … an alpha can’t ask for. You’ve gotta offer it.” The truth. What was the point of hiding what had to be obvious. Finch’s gaze turned very serious and he put his hand up, coming to rest against John’s cheek. He wasn’t wearing his glasses but John didn’t doubt he saw him well enough to know he wasn’t joking.

“I think you’re the best alpha I’ve ever known,” he said. His voice was gentle. “I can’t think why on earth you would want that?”

“You’re crazy, Finch.” John turned his face to kiss the hand.

“The government believes you died, but you could have another life. A normal life. I have nothing to offer you … but this.”

“You say it like this is nothing. It’s … a lot.”

Finch’s hand fell away. He was doing that thing with his gaze that made John feel like honey was pouring into him.

The omega hadn’t given him an answer. He’d dodged. But he hadn’t shut the door.

“I’ll sign any contract you want,” John told him. He slid his hand down Finch’s body, between his warm thighs to feel the wetness he wanted on his cock. Enough had been said for now, too much. Crazy things.

 

***

Harold woke up at the library. Again. He wasn’t sure when Reese had left.

This is becoming a bad habit, he thought, the number of nights he was not making it home. All because of his lack of control with the alpha. It seemed like every time he drew a mental line in the sand, the next wave erased it. Contracts. The alpha said he’d sign any contract. He’d said other things in the sensuous haze after milking.

We’re losing perspective, he thought, taking a good look at himself in the mirror after fixing his tie. He had to smile a little. He was feeling better physically than he had in a while and his color seemed good.

I look … loved, he thought, and the very idea made him blush and look away. He’d get his head straight today. Possibly later he’d investigate something personal to offer the alpha along with a contract, to make it less like business, more like an expression of … his regard.

He thought about a collar. There was a lot of variety and he’d seen alphas wearing them like a badge of their strength and their omega’s approval. But he did not like the thought of Reese’s throat constricted or such a blatant public display — it was too showy and impractical for the work they were doing. Reese had mentioned a cock ring or … cage. A ring would be symbolic. He remembered the one that Olivia had put on Nathan. She was very much in favor of him servicing Harold’s heat cycle but wanted it acknowledged to whom Nathan’s genitals belonged.

By the time Reese showed up, Harold had put contracts and gifts out of mind. He was re-shelving the books that had given him their new number. Wallace Negel.

Smelling coffee, he looked up to see Reese approaching with a cardboard tray in hand, holding two steaming cups. He looked freshly showered and was beautifully dressed in one of his new suits. He had a smile in his eyes as he held the tray toward him.

“No thanks. I don’t drink coffee.” He would have thought Reese had noticed that.

“Sencha green tea. One sugar,” the alpha said. He looked smug as he handed the cup to him.

“You’ve been paying attention,” Harold said, not sure he was pleased despite being served his favorite tea. He didn’t know how the alpha had uncovered this preference. He’d never mentioned it or ordered it in his hearing. He made a mental note to scan for bugs.

“Relax, Finch. It’s just tea. I haven’t guessed your favorite color yet.”

He certainly hadn’t guessed anything. Was getting close to him just a game to Reese?

“We have a new number,” Harold told him.

 

***

 

The omega was his strictly-business self again, more buttoned up than ever in a three-piece suit, with a tie pin and decorative pocket square. He smelled like his breed, but suppressed to a low level.

John missed milk-drunk Finch, but he was also ready to get to work. His system was clear and his body felt energized. No inch was given him to gloat over the tea but the job was its own reward.

I’m as ready to buckle down as you are, he projected at Finch.

Nothing, however, when all was said and done by nightfall, could have made him ready for Ulrich Kohl, the man behind the fake name, Wallace Negel.

John understood him too well. It was like tracking some alternate identity of his own. A killer alpha, member of an old East German Stasi team. A man who’d become a murderer to serve his country, who could not be redeemed. Killing him was like killing himself.

“It’s not who you are,” Finch insisted.

The little omega had survived the stress of the day but was worn down himself. It said something, John thought, that the highlight of the case was having Finch act as his spotter to fire on a German diplomat’s car. The omega was pretty good at it, even if it had made him as fluttery as one of his bird namesakes; the anxious voice asking, “What happens if you miss?” The pleasure of saying, “I don’t know. I never have.” And he hadn’t missed this time.

It was Finch who called him afterwards, not the other way around. They’d gone their separate ways after the final showdown in the darkness. It was late and John was headed downtown, headed to his place.

“There’s no need to see me,” he told him, releasing him from the terms of their agreement. The pressure he felt wasn’t severe. Not worth relieving if it meant subjecting Finch to his state of mind.

“Think of it as a … post mission assignment.”

John sighed, knowing the omega had no idea what that phrase meant to him in the service (and he would never tell him.) PMA was Kara Stanton, the ranking alpha, telling him to take care of the bodies, the teeth and fingerprints.

“I’ll be there.”

What he found when he got there, what drew him up the library stairs, were the seductive aromas of Chinese food and the omega’s unsuppressed aura. Finch was setting out bright red take-out containers on the coffee table by the beat-up couch.

“I’m quite hungry,” he said, without looking up at John. “I thought you might be too, Mr Reese.”

He realized that he was. Very hungry. They ate in relative silence and John felt the omega’s potent energy slowly easing some of the tension in his body. The food was good and once he began, he ate ravenously. The cold beer was perfect in washing the strain from his throat. Eventually John sat back, full, relaxed, and he looked at his boss. The release of tension brought the rise of sadness.

“That was me, Finch. Kohl.”

“It may be who you were — it’s not who you are.”

 

***

 

Another barrier falling. He’d sworn he would not make demands on Reese beyond the numbers and here he was, about to ask him to spend the night. It was the only thing he could think of to do, seeing the depth of his sorrow. Harold feared the depths of New Rochelle in his eyes; as if darkness was reaching out to grasp him.

“You’ve said I should find a way to keep you. Tonight … I want to keep you here with me. For my sake, Mr Reese. Not yours.”

It did seem to give the alpha pause to hear this demand. Harold felt him examining the words, trying to gauge any meaning behind them, suspicious.

“Why?”

Harold took a deep breath, searching for what to say.

“If you were wearing my collar, if I’d ringed you, or caged you; if you were my bonded mate, would you ask me why?”

“No,” Reese answered softly. A very different expression was suffusing his features. Not less serious, but more present.

“Then consider it … an audition or test.”

“Only you, Finch,” he said, shaking his head, “would test an alpha with kindness.”


	14. The Library Ladder

Finch’s tests were tougher than physical challenges. They tested things John wasn’t trained for and couldn’t always name. The night he killed Kohl, he felt the threat of tears in his eyes in the dark though none fell. Finch had milked him by hand and mouth and then curled up behind him, a reversal, like the omega was getting into position to fuck him. His softness was pressed all along John’s back and cradled the backs of his thighs. Finch started stroking him, his arm, his chest, wherever he could reach. There were a lot of warm kisses and he sucked gently. He used his teeth on John’s shoulder and neck while he pet him, like he was the alpha — it was wrong and beautiful. He handled John’s resting cock, which felt strange and wonderful, like the omega admired it soft as much as when it was hard — which was crazy. An alpha’s erect cock, the knot swollen like a fist, was its glory.

Gradually the hand rested and was still for a while. John could hear even breathing.

“Did I pass your test, Finch,” he whispered, not sure if the omega was still awake.

“Yes,” his voice was sleepy but the word was followed by the press of his lips to John’s neck and the alpha closed his eyes, grateful that whatever it was his omega wanted, he’d given.

 

***

 

Charlene Davenport, the designer-creator of the piece, set it out to be admired on the velvet. The omega had come into the back of the store, to the consultation area, to view the completed work. She was very excited for him to see it, very proud.

“Mr Crane, I hope this meets with your approval.” The complex construction, in twenty-four carat gold to be kind to the skin, was a spiral cock ring. The coil felt like silk and was as responsive to movement as if it were alive; it would hug an alpha at rest or erect. Obviously, Mr Crane cared deeply for the person who would wear this.

Harold Crane was her favorite customer. She didn’t see him often, but the pieces he admired and the ones he’d commissioned from her were always very special. She treasured the time she spent in his company over consultations. She was a top tier beta in a very secure lair but sometimes she fantasized about Harold Crane being her anchor; his sensibilities were as attractive to her as his aura.

She had always found him lovely to look at, very pretty in his perfectly tailored men’s suits that accentuated everything about him that wasn’t masculine, everything that was omega — the alluring androgyny and beautiful smooth skin. With this commission, the first piece of sexual jewelry he’d entrusted her with, she’d become even more sensitive to his physical appeal. In her own lair there were occasions when she and her husband had been favored by having their omega share their bed. The thought of Harold Crane, unwrapped like a gift to be embraced between her and husband was a delicious fantasy. Lucky alpha, she thought, to wear this ring. She hoped he was worthy.

 

***

 

“Your work is impeccable. Beautiful.”

The beta artisan had been Harold Crane’s jeweler for a number of years. Her gold work was especially fine. It felt wonderful in the hand. The bird imprint was very deep and smooth.

“Thank you, Mr Crane.”

“No, thank you. The attention to detail is … exquisite.” Harold smiled into her big brown eyes. He always made a point of spending extra time with her, to express his gratitude. Money wasn’t enough to reward her artistry.

He took the ring with him to his session at Universal Heritage and tried not dwell too much on erotic thoughts about the alpha wearing it. The contract was written. It reflected their current arrangement, with additional legalese concerning job related injuries, retirement, etc.

When he returned to the library he was quickly caught up in a new number. The name shocked him, striking close to home — someone they knew. It was Jocelyn Carter, the detective who was so determined to apprehend his alpha. 

He had eyes and ears on her. An all out action of his small lair was successful in covering her at home, at work, and even in her car. Harold got quite an education in the days he kept tabs on her. Carter had a hand in multiple investigations, was deeply engaged in raising her omega son, and still took pains to help an abused beta. The beta’s lair had a dangerous alpha, poorly supervised by an omega who loosely anchored an entire block of low-rent housing. Negligence had enabled a rogue. It sickened Harold. So far, the police had been unable to get a single lesser from those buildings to press charges.

He also learned much more about Carl Elias, rumored to be the out-lair offspring of Gino Moretti. Moretti was a senior alpha to Don Moretti, part of an extensive criminal lair, sometimes referred to as the Five Families — for the way that branches of it had spread through the five boroughs. Gino was currently in prison and Carter was trying to get the old man to help her take down his bastard son.

There was good reason, Harold thought, to believe that Elias himself was the one endangering Carter. There were literally hundreds of potential threats to this New York City detective, but he narrowed it to the three most likely: Elias, Hector Alvarez, the suspect in her latest homicide investigation, and the rogue, Eddie Kovach, with whom she’d had a number of confrontations.

 

***

John had no complaints about changing up his look. He loved the leathers. He loved the motorcycle — and the omega was right, it helped him stay off Carter’s radar. At least until he intervened with the jacked-up alpha. Carter was John’s idea of good police, but after watching her seek out and take on Kovach, he admired her style as well as her priorities.

“If you stick your nose in our lair,” he heard the alpha threaten, “I will exercise my second amendment rights. I promise you, I gotta pretty big gun.”

Kovach flared but it was weak and showy — no punch. She’d gotten right in his face, deflating it. “Man as angry and bitter as you are, I got a feeling it aint that big, Eddie.” John had to grin even though he knew it would make Kovach that much more dangerous. There was no worse insult to an alpha, and worse yet, from a female beta.

Carter was tough. She didn’t want help. She didn’t trust a nameless vigilante mixing into police business but John enjoyed besting that rogue and busting up Hector Alvarez’s garage.

She took Alvarez down by herself, despite John’s efforts to help her. But he was there when the last hammer fell. It fell long after her day should have ended, in a dark alley with a beta snitch named Bottle Cap. A guy she was trying to help.

He didn’t disturb her on the ground after he’d taken the shooter down. He knew she was hurting bad; she’d be hurting bad for a while. He knelt down low on the pavement to speak to her.

“Glad you took my advice about wearing that vest, Detective. I know it doesn’t change anything. I know you’ll still arrest me if you get the chance. But you should know whether you like me or not, Joss, you’re not alone.” She still looked pissed at him, grimacing through the pain.

Confident he’d taken out the last immediate threat, he contacted Finch.

“Elias got to Carter’s CI. Turned him into his triggerman.” He had an idea what to do about it, thanks to intel from his beta.

“Is she safe?”

“For now. It’s time to end this, Finch, once and for all.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Talk to a guy.”

John shut him out, turning off their connection while he tracked down the HR bastard who was so hot to play ball with the mob. He found him on the rooftop where Fusco said he would be, and slammed him with a flare. He’d forced him half way over the edge before the guy knew what was happening.

“Body falls from this height, it’s messy. Of course, I don’t care about making it look clean, unlike your pal Elias.”

“I don’t know who you are, but you’re threatening a Captain!”

John cocked his pistol and hit him with another flare, making him gag until he gasped, “Okay, okay.”

“Elias can’t kill a cop without permission. Run this up the chain of command. Permission’s been revoked. Tell Elias if he so much as touches Detective Carter again, I will put him, you … everyone in the ground. You got that?”

“Yeah.” John left him on his knees, puking from the flares.

Time to check in with Finch and see how pissed he was at being cut off. John was already hard and thrumming with need.

 

***

 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Harold said. He’d gone into the makeshift kitchen to brew a cup of tea that he wasn’t even sure he wanted. He was avoiding looking at the alpha because he knew the minute he did, he’d forgive him. “If you do it to keep me from worrying, there is no point. The very fact that you go silent is a signal that I should worry, because you’re hiding something from me.”

“Sorry.”

He didn’t believe Reese was the least bit sorry. He needed to configure a remote trigger for the man’s phone so he would be able to activate it himself. With that solution in mind he poured the boiling water over his tea and left it on the counter, finally turning to face him. He was startled to find the alpha on his knees close behind him, looking up at him with need like fire in his eyes. Down the plane of his body Harold saw the leather pants strained by his erection. Reese inched forward, continuing to gaze up at him as he put his hands up to hold Harold by his hips.

Harold uttered a sound that the alpha must have taken as permission because he pressed his face into him, getting low to push his nose up between his legs, alternately mouthing his cock through his pants, and trying to bite at the pad that was getting very wet and slippery.

A part of him was horrified by this behavior but most of him was shuddering with pleasure. “Not here, my clothes, Mr Reese,” he said clutching at his hair.

“Clothes,” the alpha echoed, and his fingers started on Harold’s belt, his fly, pushing things, pulling things out of his way.

Harold was momentarily grateful for the alpha’s obsession with the pad, the time he spent doing … the things he did to it (that the omega tried not to watch) he was able to draw a normal breath and his heart steadied. But Reese soon cast it aside. He rose to his feet and grabbed him, lifting him up in the air. It was surprising and exhilarating to feel so light, to feel Reese’s strength. Harold was amazed to be carried like a child, but not toward the room with the bed. “Where are we going?”

“The ladder,” Reese said, grinning in a way that Harold thought could only be described as wolfish. They were headed for the workroom and he realized what Reese intended.

The ladder was mounted on the wall at an angle for reaching the upper stacks, original equipment that Harold had found charming but certainly never considered for the purpose clearly in Reese’s mind. He set him down with his feet on the lowest rung.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Harold said, clinging to the sides, feeling excited and scared and awkward with his pants still tangled around his shoes. His backside felt more naked than naked with the cool air on his bare skin.

“Perfect,” Reese breathed the word, feeling between his legs, a finger stirring inside him, his other hand on Harold's flank to steady him. Then it was the smooth head of the alpha’s cock sliding into him and Harold’s mind emptied of words.


	15. Carter, The Traitor

John scanned the quiet work room for a sign of Finch. The half dozen screens at his desk were all lit but there was nobody home. He headed down one of the warren-like stacks, eyes roaming for something, anything that drew the eye. This was how he found things, like Finch’s stash of suppressants. Another search had turned up a cache of Sencha green tea. He noticed a book, a paperback sitting on top of the shelved hardcovers. “The Ghost In The Machine.” He picked it up, curious; an underlined passage, an inscription, an old receipt, you never knew what clue you might find in a dog-eared book. A photograph fell out. It was Finch, young, cute and nerdy-looking, with a big, blond alpha around the same age. On the back was written, “in the beginning.” Beginning of what, is what John wanted to know.

Not good, but not surprising. Of course there were probably lovers, alphas in the guy’s past but what John felt about it was not so reasonable — that he was the only one. He didn’t like proof that he was wrong. Finch had lived a whole life before they met, and he knew nothing about it. Definitely nothing about this guy. If this blond, smug-looking bastard were here right now, John thought, he could take him, easy. He heard Finch call out, “Whenever you’re ready, Mr Reese. I’m in here.”

John quickly put the book back and headed for the workroom. He looked around at its exit and entry points, confused by how the omega had turned up so quickly and quietly … the lack of scent helped. He must be dosed to his eyeballs.

“Where did you come from?”

“I breached the space-time continuum,” Finch said, so off-handedly that John almost believed him. If a thing like that was possible, Finch would be the one to do it. “Not really. I did sense my privacy being invaded but we’ll leave that for now. We have work to do. Numbers have come in.”

“What do you mean … numbers?” Obviously, people weren’t always endangered one by one in the city, but he’d figured the machine only spit them out one at a time.

“What plurals usually mean. More than one. In this case, four.”

There was no clear connection between the people whose pictures were taped to work board, and Finch seemed … downright chilly. John glanced at the ladder and then at Finch. He wondered if every impulsive fuck was going to be followed by a cold spell. Somehow, between the time he left Finch sleeping after one of these intense sessions and when he came back, something always happened to make the omega icy.

Obviously, he should never leave and Finch wouldn’t have a chance to cool off. The thought made him grin inside but it was the beginning and end of things to be amused by.

One of the four numbers on the board was already dead. A second one died, blown to bits while Finch was tracking him. Not for the first or last time, John thought that saving these people would be easier with a real lair and enough bodies to cover the grunt work. He wouldn’t have had to hear Finch do something as stupid and dangerous as approaching a bomb that was about to go off — trying to warn somebody who was beyond saving. It was the first time he breached his name, out of control in a wildfire surge of adrenaline, choking on it until he heard him alive and breathing.

He was toying with the thought of getting him to include something in their contract that would require Finch to obey him in life-threatening situations. The omega wouldn't like it, but needed to see reason. He was making his way out of a hospital parking garage, where the case had been put to rest. The last two of the four numbers they started with were safe. Carter was on notice, she knew where to pick up the bad guys, and John was looking forward to his reward.

Headlights appeared coming straight at him, slowly. Not good. He was in a wide open space with nowhere to dodge, so he stopped and waited. In the glare it took him a moment to see Carter emerge on one side and on the other, someone he’d hoped he would never see again. Since the day she’d gotten his prints, he’d lived with this possibility.

John felt a calm overtake him. If it was all over, right now, at least he’d had Finch. But he wasn’t going to go easy and watched for his chance.

“Hello, John.” The superficially gentle, reasonable voice of his old handler. An ugly sound.

“Mark.”

“Glad to see you’re still alive.”

“I bet you are.” The omegan fuck was pushing his scent, like John was still his dog. John didn't buck it, let him think he still had control.

“Surprised you ended up in New York City. Thought you’d get yourself a cabin in the woods — Montana, maybe,”

“What do you want, Mark.” He could feel Carter’s tension and confusion, but no threat from her.

“Time to come home, John. Slate’s been wiped clean.”

“You know that’ll never happen.”

The shots came from up high. A sniper with time to aim, he should be dead — which meant Mark wanted to take him alive. He was hit but he could move and that was not gonna happen. A rush of resistance propelled him up and into the shadows. He could hear Mark screaming at his alpha and calling for Carter.

A fire exit. Service stairs. He was losing a lot of blood.

It was bad. He could feel his head swimming. The pain was kicking in. He turned on his phone, leaning into the rail. He’d keep moving as long as he could.

“Hey, Harold.” 

“John, I’ve been trying to call you.” He sounded frantic but John clung to the sweetness of hearing his voice. It was all first names now, he thought.

“I’ve been kind of busy.”

“Where are you?”

“Parking structure.” He kept his voice even but needed to prepare him for the truth. “It’s not looking good.”

“Carter sold you out. They got to her.” He sounded angry. John wasn’t. He knew first hand how Snow worked.

“Yeah, they’re clever like that.” He needed to say something, tell him something. “I wanted to say thank you, Harold. For giving me a second chance.” It was getting harder to move but his feet obeyed him.

“It’s not over, John. I’m close. Just get to the ground floor.” 

John flared uselessly. “No. You stay away. Don’t even risk it.” The omega didn’t answer and the flare had cost him. He staggered on, praying Finch was obeying him. All he needed was a place to crawl into and die, out of Mark’s reach.

When he stumbled through the door to the street, he saw Finch. He had no words left, barely the strength to reach him.

***

He will not die. I will not let him. He will not die. The words possessed him like a mantra and his heart drove the car, finding a gear of unknown intensity and concentration.

He saw him come through the door, pale as a ghost and crimson with blood. Harold rushed to support him, taking as much of his weight as he could. Just make it to the car, he told himself. The garage door burst open behind them and she was there, Carter, the betrayer, staring at them.

“You!” she said. Harold froze, but in the next miraculous second … she was helping him, giving him the strength to get John in the car. His ordeal was not done but in that moment Harold believed they would make it. Fate would not carry him this far to take the alpha away from him.

 

***

John woke up in the night in a hospital bed, but not in a hospital. His body gave a start, but he saw and scented something that kept him quiet. Finch was sitting on a couch close by, in pajamas, lit by a small table lamp. He’d never seen him dressed like this before, in a setting like this. Not in a suit, not at a computer. The pajamas made sense. They looked soft but were pinstriped and buttoned, with a breast pocket. He looked beautiful in them. A pillow and a blanket were near him on the couch. His hair was fluffy on one side. The lamplight spilled across a big book in his lap. John was willing to bet he was looking at pictures of birds.

The sight was like a campfire on a cold night, warming, mesmerizing. Whatever this place was, they were here because Finch had ignored his warnings and rushed into danger. He couldn’t keep doing that. John’s heart couldn’t take it, his pride couldn’t take it. He was alpha and had to protect. An omega was power and had to be protected.

Power. Snow’s was nothing compared to this. For the first time an odd thought came to John, that his omega did have a lair. Invisible because it was abstract, it was everywhere. So much power in his creation of the machine that watched the world. All of it sprung from this small person, given to him to protect.

I’m not enough, John thought. But I have to be.


	16. Joss Works A Number, John Gets A Ring

Dr Madani stitched his alpha back together but it was Dr Tillman who helped him transport Reese to the safe house.

“I know you must have questions,” Harold told her, when Reese was secure in the hospital bed and the necessary IVs were hooked up. “Unfortunately, there is little I can safely answer.” He could see the questions in her thoughtful brown eyes; who they were, how they knew the things they knew, how he’d come to have an apartment full of medical equipment and supplies.

“I am curious,” she said, “but actually, Harold, it’s enough right now for me to know … that you and your alpha help people.” She looked from him to the figure in the bed. Harold looked too, the sight reassuring him. Reese’s color had come back. He’d been lucky with where he’d been wounded. Since they’d gotten him settled, Harold could see a healthy thickening of the alpha's genitals had begun, the gentle lift of the bed linens over his groin.

“He should sleep through the night. I’ll come by in the morning and check on him, remove the IVs.”

“I deeply appreciate your assistance, Doctor … and your discretion.” She offered him a slightly tired but lovely smile.

“I’m not trying to pry into your relationship, Harold. Your alpha isn’t suffering now, but I could bring a sleeve with me in the morning, it’s a fairly routine procedure.”

Harold felt himself blush, but not too badly. A sleeve, he knew, was a medical milking device.

“Thank you, but it won’t be necessary. I think it will be comforting for me to take care of him, myself.”

Her smile was kind when she nodded.

“I know I’m not here to look after you, but when you came to the emergency room that day, your issues with pain … “

“Your surmise that I paid that visit with ulterior motives … is correct.”

“But your injuries are real. How’s your pain level tonight?” she asked.

“Manageable, now that he’s safe.”

All things seemed possible now.

It had been awhile since he’d spent time in this apartment, the site of much of his own recovery. He’d maintained it through the years, against possible need. Periodic housekeeping services, the stocking of supplies.

Alone with Reese, Harold removed his own clothes, rumpled, bloodied. He found familiar pajamas to put on after washing himself. He went back into the main room and very carefully positioned himself along the alpha’s uninjured side, to milk him.

He pushed aside the sheet and admired him. He gratefully inhaled the scent of him, under the antiseptic and medicinal smells. The feel of him in his mouth, under his hand, the first swallow of milk was soothing. Harold closed his eyes and gently communed with him as he drank him down.

When he was finished, he wound the gold spiral cock ring around him. The ring that he'd never found the right time to give him. Cheating, maybe, to give the gift this way, but he wanted him to have it now, he wanted to see this most worthy of alphas celebrated with gold.

 

***

Joss felt the sting. The omega’s reproach. It wasn’t hard to understand — the memory of him supporting the wounded body was still vivid, the look in his eyes that accused her. She’d faced a lot of tough choices in her life but she’d crossed a line into the unknown when she helped a fugitive escape, a man she’d been trying to arrest for months. That decision, as unlike her as it was, wasn’t that hard to make after the sniper fire; seeing the person who’d saved her betrayed before her eyes.

She thought about Luke as she did the job the omega had dropped in her lap; Luke’s insights into disguising one’s breed.

“He could be in hiding,” he’d said. “He could be running away from his responsibilities. Not everyone feels their breed in their heart.”

These were issues she needed to understand, to help Taylor bear the burdens that came with his privileges in life. It was pretty clear to her now that this particular omega had complex reasons to hide his identity.

He wasn’t disguising himself when he tricked her into the meeting at the restaurant bar. She was very aware of his aura, a sensory impression for her more than a smell; soothing, nourishing air. He could have tamped it down, not given himself so freely, she thought. It occurred to her that he was a generous person, giving even as his eyes showed the pain she’d caused him; showed his fear of trusting her. Generous with his aura but not with answers. He’d given up nothing concrete, maintaining a level of mystery that made her very uneasy.

“That man,” he’d said, indicating a young beta at the bar. “His name is Derek Watson. He is about to be involved in a violent crime.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Did you bring your service weapon, Detective? Sorry to toss you into the deep end, but, as you know, my friend is indisposed.”

He’d walked out. Leaving her faced with what was probably a wild goose chase. She didn’t know what to think but she felt bound to accept his challenge. She dug into the few clues the omega had given her and stuck with it, following the young man, keeping her eyes open and her wits about her.

Watson turned out to be a powder keg. Just as the omega must have intended, she was there to see the match lit, to see him go for his gun in a crowded bar. She was able to stop the explosion of violence before it could happen. Her phone rang as she’d cuffed him. It gave her chills to hear the omega’s voice. “That, Detective Carter, is what we do.”

 

***

 

John was in awe of the snake-like ring of gold at the base of his cock, so perfectly fit to him and smooth in expansion that he did not notice it was there for quite some time. It wasn’t until he made his way, rolling the stand with the IVs attached, to the bathroom in the night (while Finch slept, book still open in his lap) that he felt it and saw it, and stared at it in wonder.

Like most alphas, especially those heading into the military, he’d rigorously shaved his pubic hair as a youngster, until he could get rid of it for good. Alphas did this to draw attention to their breed, to look more intimidating and toughen the skin all around the base. It was also meant to invite marking or ornamentation — what omega would want their brand, their claim on an alpha hidden in a bush of hair?

Standing with his cock in his hand, he gazed down at the ring, momentarily forgetting to piss.

It was astonishingly beautiful and it made him look bigger, and thicker. The ring was his omega. Holding him, committed to him, adorning him. The imprint he felt under his thumb meant more than the gold it was stamped in, but he was very proud to see the shining precious metal clutching him, knowing he was worth this to Harold.

It was maddening that at the same time he felt enhanced, he was impaired by the gunshot wound.

To the good — Finch soon let him work, even if it was confined to a wheelchair. They were holed up in a high end apartment together, keeping an eye on the latest number, the building’s super. To the bad, it was nerve-wracking as ever to have the omega doing legwork. Finch, despite his efforts, resisted learning even the simplest of self-defense techniques, his expression horrified when John showed him how to go for an attacker’s eye.

The wheelchair didn’t seem necessary to him, but Finch insisted and fussed after him like a mother hen. John didn’t want care. He didn’t want affection. He wanted out. He wanted to prove himself, take action. He thought he could track the beta female they’d determined was the number’s target, even in the wheelchair. Finch looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“You’re not tailing her to work,” he insisted. John maneuvered the chair in a tight turn in front of Finch, to demonstrate his agility.

“I’m getting pretty good at this thing.”

Finch doubted him. He mocked him.

“Yes, I’m sure the CIA will be deeply impressed … when they shoot you.”

He had a point, but John didn’t like it.

Only when he was able to redeem himself, fighting to protect both Finch and the victim, when he sent the rogue alpha flying through a second story window (in spite of his injury!) did he feel truly worthy of the ring he’d been given.

Knuckles bloodied by solid punches, muscles hard-used, thinking back on how he’d used his crutch as a weapon, he lay at peace on the library bed displaying his hard cock, ringed with gold. He basked in Finch’s aura and warm possessive gaze. He had the right to ask the omega to come close, to bring his tits in reach of his mouth so he could kiss them and suck them. It was heaven.


	17. The Matter Of Payment

Harold poured hot water over the strainer full of tea, wondering how John was faring with the latest number. It had been a tough week followed by an eerily quiet string of days. The alpha, with Detective Carter’s help, had been successful with Andrea Gutierrez. He hoped Reese understood better now that it wasn’t necessary to expand the lair, good people like Dr Tillman, like Detective Carter, could be assets without being drawn in closer than Harold was comfortable with.

During the quiet time, Harold had to admit that he missed Reese. He would show up to check in but kept a physical distance, bringing him tea, pastry, looking at him in that way he had. The sapphire eyes said — your contract, your terms, but give me an inch and I’ll take it all. The contract formalized the original arrangement of relief for the alpha, per job. The numbers were usually so constant, and the alpha so impetuous between numbers, that Harold hadn’t considered the possibility he’d be left … wanting. If he gave that inch, he might as well tear up the contract, bare his shoulder and be done with it. He couldn’t.

A number had come in the night before and he’d contacted Reese with the information.

With a sigh, he carried his tea to the workroom and initiated contact, tired of waiting to hear from him.

“Good morning, Mr Reese.” Noise crackled out of the speaker on his desk, some sort of static, but no answer. “Mr Reese? A bit of a bad connection. Were you able to convince Mr Billick to abandon his plan to kill his ex-wife?”

“I’m working on it, Finch.” Harold realized he was hearing the sounds of him fighting. Grunting, scuffling, what must be breaking glass. “Yeah, Finch. What is it?” Harold didn’t answer, aghast at what he was hearing, more grunts and then Reese panting. “Pretty sure that’s a parole violation, Teddy … hello Finch.” His voice was more relaxed but Harold could still hear the strain. “Billick and I just came to an understanding.”

The low, breathy sound of Reese’s voice as he spoke the last words, did things to Harold’s body. His thighs pressed together and he set his tea down with a slightly shaky hand.

 

***

John shrugged off the fight, emptied the bullets from the number’s firearm, and headed out, headed for Finch and the library and something sweet and wet for what ailed him. He’d almost gone to him the night before, and the night before that, and … several nights before that. He’d signed the contract that Finch drew up. And he was going to stick to it, if it killed him. He had his ring, a joy and a torment all in one. He knew who he belonged to but the caress of the gold wasn’t the touch he wanted. Not much consolation, lying in his bed alone, feeling it clench around his excited cock. It only fed his hunger for what he really wanted but hadn't earned.

He’d spent time with Finch every day. Waiting on the next number, absorbing his aura, trying to tempt him. The omega had a sweet tooth and John tried to feed it, hoping if he stood close enough to the pastry, Finch would get the idea. He saw signs of the omega’s desire, little tells that suggested need: hints of pink in his cheeks, a certain restlessness in the way he sat in front of his computer. And the pads John salvaged from the trash can in the library bathroom told him their own story. Sometimes there were two a day he could choose from. Did Finch know he was jerking off when he disappeared for five minutes at a time. Sometimes John was pretty sure he did, but Finch said nothing.

He was on his way to him when Finch phoned again. A new number.

“I’ll text you the address,” the omega said. “Call me when you get there.” Fuck. Rotten timing. Finch’s machine must have it in for him. 

Not the suburbs, but close to it in the hinterlands of Queens. John put Billick and the fight out of his mind, thoughts about rewards on hold. He had a few bumps and bruises, scratches. There was a little pressure between his legs but it felt good, not painful. He was parked on a street that could have been the one he grew up on. In the middle was an omegan residence, noticeably bigger than the others. To either side were the modest but well-kept single-family homes of the lair. The new number was a beta male, at the far edge. He looked as average as beta could be. Wife, a couple pups. Typical breakfast table scene playing out through the lens of John’s camera.

“Are you still there, Mr Reese?” Finch’s voice made him aware he’d fallen silent as he watched Scott Powell interact with his kids, kiss his wife.

“You ever crave a more conventional life, Finch?”

“If by conventional you mean a life without the numbers, it has crossed my mind.”

“It looks like Powell has a pretty normal one.”

“If there’s one thing our little venture has proven, Mr Reese, it’s that people are rarely what they seem.”

Powell, however, turned out to be exactly what he seemed — a regular Joe kind of beta, down on his luck. It had made him the perfect patsy for an omega whose specialty was murder for hire. A creature as technologically savvy as Finch. John was stunned by the panic when Finch realized he was being hacked by the hacker he was trying to trace.

He was still rebuilding his system, John suspected, when he and Zoe Morgan were wrapping the case. She was an unlikely asset that Finch had called in. She had helped them bring the case to a close; her knowledge of the city’s politicians and back room deals. John privately questioned her motives. She didn’t strike him as the kind of person who did something, for nothing. She stood with him on the street watching the Powell family’s reunion.

“There’s still the matter of payment,” she said, giving him a look that would have dropped him to his knees in another lifetime. Omegas like Zoe Morgan didn’t offer lightly, and weren’t used to being turned down.

“I’m taken, Zoe.”

“I sensed the ring,” she conceded, “but you’re not bonded, and Harold’s a pretty generous guy.”

John hoped the generous guy was listening and getting ideas but he heard nothing. Finch’s network must still be down.

“Maybe if you asked him politely,” he said, with minimal deference. She smiled but there was no amusement in her eyes and she buffed him with a flare for his insolence. John let it knock him back a step to salve her ego.

“Maybe I will,” she said. “And maybe next time, you’ll feel the rod.”

He watched her walk toward her car, giving at least the respect of not turning his back (she looked, to check.) An asset, or a liability, he wondered. He had to get back to Finch. He was aching with need now and worried about his omega. He’d become so used to his almost constant presence in his ear that the silence was deafening.

The lights were on — a good sign that he’d restarted the generators. He hurried up the marble stairs, calling out to him.

“Here, Mr Reese.”

“What are you doing?” Finch was cross-legged on the floor, his lap full of wires. 

“Just a few more connections,” he said, not looking up. “Almost done.” He groaned a little as he transferred the pile of cables from his lap to the floor. “Actually, I would appreciate a hand in getting up.”

John lifted him easily, setting him on his feet, but hung on to him until he seemed steady. He thought about carrying him straight back to the bed now that he had his hands on him, but something in Finch’s manner said that wasn’t a good idea. John thought he might need to warm him up to it.

“Zoe propositioned me,” he said, hoping to ignite some jealousy.

“What?” Finch sounded alarmed. This might work. The omega was turning around to look at him, moving a little awkwardly, John noticed, his legs were not altogether under him yet. “Propositioned you — how?” Finch’s distress matched the disarray of his clothes. No jacket, his tie loosened and trying to escape from his vest, his sleeves pushed up his forearms.

“She suggested payment.”

“Payment?” he frowned, not comprehending.

“Body language, Finch. I knew what she meant but in case I didn’t, she made it pretty clear when she pointed out that I’m ringed, but not bonded, and said … you’re generous.” Finch’s jaw dropped and his cheeks got pink. This was good, John thought. “You’re not that generous … are you?”

“Definitely not.” Finch reached out and clutched a handful of John’s shirtfront, partly for balance and partly John hoped, to lay claim to him. “She gave no indication of anything like that when I met with her.” John felt the warmth of possessiveness rising from his omega and it felt good. He breathed it in.

“I refused her,” he said, answering the anguished question in the omega’s big blue eyes. He ran his hands up Finch’s arms.

“Did she punish you?” he asked, and the tender concern swathed him.

“Not this time,” John said, moving in closer, “… but she mentioned the rod, if I turned her down again.” Let the omega contemplate that and come to his own conclusion. For the moment, it was enough that he was radiating his need to assert possession and almost in John’s arms.

“You are not to be interfered with, in any way,” Harold declared, vehemently. His hands both came up to brace on John’s chest, pushing him back. “I can’t ignore this.” The plan was backfiring, suddenly and horribly. Instead of heading toward the room with the bed, the omega was limping back to his workstation and John was cursing himself.

 

***

No decent omega would touch another’s ringed or collared alpha without explicit permission, even un-bonded. Harold was furious at the thought of the indiscretion. He needed to contact Zoe Morgan immediately, make it abundantly clear. How had he so misread her? It couldn’t wait. He considered using his phone instead of the terminal at his desk but thought it might do the alpha good to hear him challenge her.

“Hello Harold, thought I might hear from you.”

“Ms Morgan, though I am deeply grateful for your assistance …”

“Calm down, Harold.” She sounded blithe, casual. It was inconceivable.

“You know what you did was wrong,” he insisted.

“Wrong is such an ugly word. I was merely testing the waters and they were very chilly. If you don’t bond that dog, you’re a fool. He’s no good to anyone else and you’re so in love with him, it’s kind of pathetic. Shelve your outrage and do the right thing. You can thank me later. Have a lovely evening, my friend.”

Harold stared at the speaker in shock. What had just happened? He felt almost afraid to turn around. She didn’t know, didn’t understand why he couldn’t do what seemed so simple to her.

He wanted this man to be unshakably bound to him. But he was afraid. The wistfulness in John’s voice when he spoke of a conventional life, something Harold couldn’t give. He might think about a life without the numbers but he knew he would never have it.

More than the fear of what he couldn’t give was the fear of what he’d be taking … under false pretenses. The things John didn’t know. He’d failed to save Jessica. His own maneuvering to protect the machine had nearly led to John’s death in Ordos. These were things that could alter the alpha’s view of him forever. Maybe he would never find them out, but between bond-mates there could be, or should be, no such secrets.

“Harold, you’ve got to look at me again, sometime. It’s okay. I know you’ve got your reasons.” Oh god, this was worse, for John to think there was some fault in him that held him back. Harold took a deep breath and turned around slowly.

He owed him the truth. The secrets shouldn’t exist between them, bonded or not. But looking into the alpha’s eyes Harold could not bring himself to say anything that would jeopardize what he had.

What I have, he thought, moving toward him. John was actually offering him one of his slight smiles and his expression was smoldering.


	18. The Ship Is Christened

John didn’t want to talk about the bond they could have, or might have. He wanted to feel the one they did have, the one he had every right to, by contract. He wanted to feel Finch’s hand on the cock ring, get it wet in the juices that flowed when he fucked him.

“Zoe thinks you love me,” he teased the omega, pulling the half-escaped tie all the way out of his vest; tickling Finch’s nose with the tip of it, startling him. Finch looked ruffled, a little pink like he was embarrassed, but worried. John didn’t want him to be worried. He wanted what was coming to him.

He scooped him up in his arms — because he could. Because it felt good to carry him like a baby. He liked what it did to him. Get his feet off the ground and Finch seemed to come undone. His arms came around John’s neck, making the alpha feel like a victor, carrying his prize.

By the time he laid him down on the bed it was easy to wrangle him out of his clothes. The omega was rosy with desire and not resisting. John got the shirt open, the pants down to Finch’s knees and had to stop and kiss him, get his fingers wet inside him.

“Can we try this another way?” he asked him. Finch seemed receptive and John had dreamed of having him face down on his belly with his hips lifted up. “I’ll make a pile of pillows for you.”

“I’ll try,” Finch said.

John covered the pillow mound in the middle of the bed with towels. He watched the omega move slowly, naked on his hands and knees to position himself. He looked vulnerable in a way that made John incoherent. He touched himself, feeling the ring at the base of his cock, mesmerized by the sight. “This feels all right,” Finch said, settling in with a tantalizing final wiggle.

With his smooth butt up in the air, the omega took the shape of a thousand alpha fantasies; the close-up they would pay for. John held back only long enough to taste him, gripping a smooth damp thigh as he licked inside and rubbed his mouth in the fresh flow of salty sweetness.

Finch made a breathy, impatient sound, muffled by the pillow he was hugging. John climbed over him, spilling milk on the backs of his thighs, his butt cheeks. He used the head of his cock to mix the white stuff into the pool of clear slick welling out of the beautiful cunt, and pressed inside, looking down their bodies to see his gold ring in motion.

What came after that was wrong. John wanted what he always wanted, but would never have taken it. He’d agreed not to. Finch’s hips shifted against him, tilting his pelvis up and suddenly he pushed back hard as John thrust into him. The knot squeezed inside him, lodging and swelling deliciously. The omega whimpered but John could not withdraw.

“Easy Finch. Easy.” He held himself still, fighting the need to thrust even as his mind’s edges whited-out. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

Knotting motions were like swallowing, part voluntary and part reflex. Every school child learned it was “nature’s way” to stimulate the omega. Alphas performed the movements whether they were knotted to machines or tied to a human partner. John was not a school child, he was a grown man who’d learned to control and use his body to do his will, and he fought to keep still.

 

***

 

Harold wanted it, he’d imagined the sensations. The first ring of vaginal muscle was rich in pleasure sensors and the pressure of the knot moving through them sent shudders of joy through his body. He knew it was reckless. He’d forbidden this — they’d be too close, he’d be too helpless, his body might not be able to take it. Why now, he didn’t know, but the need was overwhelming. His muscles trembled around the swelling knot and he was overwhelmed by achieving the fullness he craved. If only John would … move.

Reese was speaking words. Harold’s head was swimming.

“I didn’t mean to … “ Harold understood him.

“I did,” he managed to say. The alpha started rocking into him … like the answer to a prayer.

 

***

 

He wants it. The knowledge washed through him in waves. John swore new silent vows of devotion as he fucked him, the short blissful thrusts the knotting demanded; he would have birds tattooed on his dick, Harold’s name emblazoned all over his body. He was soaking in the overflow, his balls drenched, his ring slicked.

When the omega came his body’s strength was stunning, wringing every drop John could give. He couldn’t bite the shoulder he hungered for but he painted the other one with sucking kisses as he stirred himself gently in the creamy cunt, his knot gradually subsiding.

His cock was still swollen and firm when he pulled out and John felt proud at the sight of it glistening and thick from what they'd done. Finch also looked shiny, swollen. He needed to be eased off his mound of pillows onto dry toweling. John stole a pillow, warm but dry from the pile, to put under his head. He loved seeing how well-fucked he looked, all his features smooth and his eyes heavy with satisfaction.

I did this, he thought.

He cleaned himself in the bathroom, splashing his dick and the ring in the sink. He wished it could always be steeped in his omega’s juice. Not practical, and Harold wouldn’t like it. What mattered was that it had been royally baptized by the knotting. Christened, like the prow of a ship with champagne. Even cleaned it would have the memory.

He brought a dampened cloth and dry towels back to the bed. This gave him an excuse to continue handling him, to spread his legs and look at the swollen lips of his cunt, touch them and pet him. 

“That feels nice,” Harold said. He sounded sleepy. John smiled and let his finger slide into him. The muscles were relaxed but hugged him. The omega opened his eyes. “Not yet,” he said. “Let me rest.”

The alpha withdrew his finger. He could not resist putting it in his mouth. The blue eyes, barely open, watched him. There was only a faint expression of disapproval, the barest drawing of eyebrows that said, must you?

Yes, he thought back at him. He’d tasted his own milk before. Not particularly appealing, but he loved their mingled flavors on his tongue. He stretched out beside him under the covers. Harold turned on his side to allow himself to be held. This was more than enough for John, for now. Not yet, he’d said. It implied he understood that John was owed more. He’d done two jobs for his omega and wanted as much as it would get him. He wasn’t the one who’d violated their agreement.

What did it mean that Finch … that Harold, he thought, kissing the back of his head, nuzzling his soft fragrant hair … had broken the terms of the contract? It was hard to think with his arms full of him. His head full of his smell, the taste of him in his mouth. The warm cheeks of his ass were snug up against John’s cock and the moisture seeping out of him was once again wetting the ring. He covered a small tit with his hand and closed his eyes.

He would tie him again. That was one thing it definitely meant. Later, when the omega was rested, he thought, and he slipped contentedly toward sleep.


	19. Harold's Guilt

Harold knew he wasn’t entering a cycle but he wondered, waking up in the dark with John wrapped around him. It had been a long time. He didn’t remember the approach to it being like this, though there had been a lot of moisture, a feeling of need. What he felt now with John seemed different, more conscious … not like a fever in his reproductive system.

I don’t have that excuse for the way I behaved. I just … wanted him.

Olivia had managed his cycles. A situation he accepted because he had no other viable options. Nathan had been a kind lover. He’d respected Harold’s shyness, his awkwardness. “I’m your friend. I’m not going to let you go through this with a stranger. Olivia agrees with me.”

Harold had avoided doctors for a very long time, finding ways to obtain the drugs he needed on his own. But when he went into business with Olivia Ingram, she found out how long it had been since he’d seen a professional. She insisted on a complete physical. “We’re partners, I need to know you’re healthy.” It was Nathan he would work with but the company was backed by her lair. She oversaw the financing and created the corporate structure.

Harold was poked and prodded in all the ways he’d dreaded. His new physician told him he had to go off the suppressants for a while. He was going to start him on a newer drug — the old one was being taken off the market.

“You’ve been on these too long and I suspect you started taking them much too young. Grew up in a rural area, did you say?”

“Yes,” he’d answered, without specifying. The doctor had nodded, sagely and with distaste, as though this confirmed his suspicion that Harold had been raised by wolves.

“Whoever prescribed these drugs for you in your youth, Mr Wren, did you a great disservice, in my opinion. To be blunt, I think they inhibited your sexual development. Fortunately, you’re generally in good health, despite the suppression. You need to make arrangements for the onset of a cycle. When was your last one?”

“It’s been some time,” he’d said. “I couldn’t say, exactly.” The more precise answer would have been, never.

The exam had been as disturbing and invasive as he knew it would be, the very reason he’d avoided them for so long. But he had bowed to Olivia’s demand and then to her … generosity. The arrangement, per his doctor’s recommendation, was for three cycles a year. Every four months he and Nathan would spend a few days at a luxury suite designed to accommodate a heat cycle, arranged by Olivia.

Combing through his memories brought a wave of sadness and he clutched unthinking at John’s arm around him. The alpha briefly hugged him tighter though he didn’t wake up. Harold saw Nathan in his mind’s eye being covered by a sheet when the doctors gave up on him. He saw Olivia’s pain in the chaos after the bombing, her tall, immaculate presence with her guard beside the cot where Nathan’s body lay. He’d wanted to go to her so badly in the midst of so much horror; the wounded, police, doctors, frantic family members searching for loved ones. He felt the agony of his decision to hide from her, to protect her; it had been worse than the physical pain of his injuries.

So much deceit permeated his life, so much hiding. The reasons had changed since his first flight from home, but the need never ended. Now a ghost had joined him in the shadows. An alpha like no other, a man that he dared to want for his mate. Someone he couldn’t afford to deceive.

“John,” he spoke out in the dark. The man made a sleepy noise and rubbed against him, his erection nudging between Harold’s thighs. How good it would feel inside him, if he could let go of these thoughts and give in to desire.

That couldn’t happen. Not now, maybe not ever. “I need to talk to you,” he said, opening a door he would now have to walk through.

“I’m listening,” the alpha said, sounding much less sleepy than Harold expected. He wondered how long John had been lying awake, quiet with his own thoughts.

 

***

He could taste Harold’s sadness. He waited for it to pass. The omega was given to melancholy but didn’t usually linger there too long. John never probed for the reasons, enough of them were obvious.

He was no stranger to sadness. His own was better contained than Harold’s. I’m alpha, he thought, not a sensitive omega. It made him patient with the man in his arms, who had a heart as big as the world. John didn’t dwell in his own past if he could help it. It was much better to be centered here in the present, where he’d found solid ground and good things had come to him. Good beyond his imagining.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m listening.”

Harold wanted to talk. The tone of his voice said it wasn’t going to be something he wanted to hear. Especially now that he was pulling away, not wanting to be held. John’s heart beat a little faster, his guards rising. He felt abandoned when he lost the sticky warmth where their bodies had been pressed together.

His gut warned that the omega was preparing to reject, to withhold; he was going to try to push him away.

“I want you, John,” Harold said. The words disarmed him and he reached for the omega’s warm little body. “Wait, no, don’t hold me. I can’t … not until you hear me out.”

But you want me, he thought, confused, reaching for him again. He was stopped by a soft flare, feather light but still a flare. Finch … definitely did not want to be touched. John could taste his fear.

“Why?”

“There are things I need to say. Because, it’s possible … that when I tell you the things I’ve done, that you may not want to touch me.”

He studied the omega in the low light. This was more Finch craziness. He might not know everything about him but he knew enough. There was nothing he was capable of that could turn John away. He had to nip this in the bud.

“Did you kill my mother, Finch, my father? I never had a dog, so I know that can’t be it.”

“What? God no, please be serious,” he said, sitting up, awkwardly. “Our paths have crossed before, John. I don’t think you fully appreciated or understood that when I spoke to you about Jessica, the danger I knew she was in, it was because I failed to save her, the machine gave me her number. And John … you almost died because of me.”

This must be the source, John thought, he could taste the anguish.

“You didn’t fail Jessica, Harold. I did. And a lot of things have almost killed me. What, specifically, did you do?”

The omega’s story unfolded, the tale of how a laptop with his code ended up in the hands of the Chinese, how it led to the events in Ordos. The only anger it stirred in John was the urge to go back in time and kill the treacherous alpha who’d betrayed Harold. He was somewhat satisfied to hear that someone else put him down.

It amazed him to learn his own part in the story, how his decision to disobey orders, his failure to kill Daniel Casey had earned the omega’s admiration. For that alone the agency might have eliminated him. What interested him most as he listened, was that he was learning parts of Harold’s history.

John knew who was responsible for the missile strike in China, and it had little to do with Harold or his convoluted plan for protecting the machine; the agency chose its methods.

Jessica. It touched him that he had tried to help her without the resource of an alpha.

“I saw you at the hospital,” Harold said. “I was in a wheelchair then, we nearly collided in the corridor, but of course, you didn’t see me. You were blind with grief.”

“Jessica wasn’t your failure. She was mine, and it happened a long time ago, Harold, when I chose the service over marrying her.” It wasn’t the delay of days that doomed Jessica; he was years too late to save her.

What he really wanted to know now, was how the omega had ended up in that wheelchair. He was being told a lot, but not everything. The words, “in the beginning,” printed on the back of a photograph were still a mystery. They implied a further history, a significant relationship. What part in the story was played by that big blond alpha?

His questions could wait. The omega had fallen silent. He’d stretched out on the bed again at some point in the storytelling, and was flat on his back, gazing up through the dark at nothing, at the ceiling.

“I didn’t almost die because of you, Harold. You saved me.”

The face, so smart, so expressive, turned slightly toward him, the little bit he could turn his head, to see him. The omega’s aura had become smooth and clear, the clouds no longer blocking the sun. John moved close, so Harold wouldn’t strain his neck to look at him. Confident now that he wouldn’t be pushed away, he touched warm skin and anticipated kisses.

“You said you want me,” he reminded him.

“Yes, I did say that.” Harold’s voice was gentle and John basked in his loving gaze. “Because I do.”


	20. Dr Crow Comforts Fusco

Fusco was in the hospital. John sat outside his room, watching the corridor. It was late, past regular visiting hours. Carter had helped out with the number, but it was lair that took the hit, right in the ass. John was proud of his beta for throwing himself in front of a bullet to save a kid. It could have been a lot worse for Fusco, but John’s pet cop wouldn’t be sitting pretty for a while.

Finch was in the room with him. Or rather, Dr Crow, was. The omega had agreed that their beta rated a personal visit, some healing time. John thought he made a very alluring doctor, in hospital blues under a crisp white lab coat. The open throat of the top showed more pale smooth skin than Finch normally revealed, plus a little of his collar bones, and it let his scent escape much more freely than usual. When the coat opened slightly with his movements, the shape of his tits could be seen under the blouse-like shirt. John was still thinking about it, remembering his glimpse of the small mounds. Nice view for Fusco, he thought. Best not to think too much about the omega's body until he could actually get his hands on it. He was due, he was ready and he'd have what he needed ... soon.

The case had been a rough one. Maybe hiring himself out to a fourteen year-old boy, who was bent on vengeance, wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had (as Harold so kindly pointed out.) But John had been pretty entertained by it. He liked Darren McGrady, who was their youngest number yet. The kid was an artist, a budding musician, and wise beyond his years; looking at the world through the ancient perspectives of Bushido and Sun Tzu. What alpha wouldn’t like to be compared to a samurai?

The boy came from an unstable lair. The omega landlord who anchored it didn’t care about his betas beyond the monthly checks they handed over.

Darren impressed him as the kind of beta who should have a top tier future. Surprising, considering the lair, but John had seen it happen before. He’d also seen the reverse of it, perfect lairs that spawned monsters.

He wanted this kid to have a chance to flourish, but first he’d had to keep him from killing anyone.

The whole neighborhood was unstable, most of its lesser kids getting what they needed from gang lairs. A neighborhood comic book store drew pups in like a magnet. It proved to be the heart of the threat for this number. Worse than indifferent. The male omega who owned and operated the place, Andre Wilcox, had a veneer of nurture and kindness, but he was turning the neighborhood’s kids into his crew; with connections to John’s old friends in HR and the worst of omegas, Elias.

The hospital floor was fairly quiet. The alpha guards on staff didn’t pack much power, they offered him quiet respect when they passed on rounds. Most of the night shift workers were beta. Nurses, orderlies. Betas made the world go round.

John hadn’t given up on expanding their lair. Andrea Gutierrez was his idea of a perfect beta candidate. She was smart, knew the law and the courts and could hold her own with a steel baton. What’s more, he knew she was looking for a lair. He needed to work on Finch. The omega was convinced that they could get by with assets like Carter and Tillman. But when it came right down to it, they weren’t lair.

It wasn’t just about making the numbers easier. He had a new, purely selfish reason he wanted the expansion. Harold said he wanted the bond, but … he’d come up with another reason not to go through with it. The numbers.

He wouldn’t feel safe, he said, entering a cycle, days of being unable to work. He was reluctant to mate, fearing it would bring on a cycle. “I want it, John, but I don’t think we can take the chance.”

“You’re making excuses.” John’s first reaction was cold. There would always be something. His sense that the omega would always find a reason to resist, to withdraw, was strong. There was something in Finch, at the core of him, that held back, even when he seemed like he was melting in John’s hands. The alpha was dazzled by the power he’d been given to make physical demands, but did it really mean there was anything more?

When he considered it calmly, he decided he would find someone who could coordinate intel, someone computer-y like Finch, and enough bodies to take his own place on the job. He would find a way to destroy any obstacle the omega threw at him. He would not be denied what he’d seen promised in Harold’s eyes.

His thoughts had strayed a few times to the female alpha he’d fought at the gym. He hadn’t seen anything on her to identify an omega and he hadn’t smelled a bond. It was in the back of his mind to go back to that gym and have a look around for her. Her temperament struck him as the kind of steady energy that could handle the numbers and she really liked to fight. Most alphas would be more than happy with steady access to good milk bars — he had no intention of sharing Finch, not physically anyway. There was more than enough of him to go around as an anchor.

 

***

“You and Wonder Boy didn’t have to come down here,” Fusco said, but he looked pleased, Harold thought, when he took a seat near the head of the bed so they could see one another.

“Of course we did.” He’d been a little concerned that he wouldn’t know what to say or do to nurture Fusco, but it turned out to be as simple as tending the children at Universal Heritage.

There was something oddly appealing about the gruff cop. Harold couldn’t help but feel sympathy seeing him stretched out, face down on the bed.

“You smell real good,” the beta said, with a grin that was a lot like the ones he got from the pups. Harold reached out to touch him, like he would have pet a child, stroking a bare forearm that Fusco had tucked up with his hand curled near his face.

“You can close your eyes, Lionel.” He could see he was sleepy.

“You gonna go?”

“No. I’ll be here for a while.”

Harold pushed his aura a little, something he rarely did outside the children’s center. It felt good. After a while, when he saw that the beta was soundly asleep he sat back in the chair.

The door opened and John looked in.

“Doctor’s rounds, Harold. Come with me.”

“Maybe we should just go,” he said, gathering his things. Best to avoid a lengthy talk with any of the resident physicians. Even a good cover could only stand up to so much scrutiny.

“This way,” John told him, taking his arm. He opened a door across the hallway and urged Harold through into what appeared to be a supply or storage closet. Shelving units to either side, packed with linens and scrubs, pillows, blankets. Harold glimpsed stacks of bed pans, water pitchers. Completely dark when the door closed. Hardly room to stand together. Bad … idea, he said to himself, trying not to be overwhelmed by his alpha’s presence, the scent of his need.

John was very close behind him, his arm coming around him, his hand wandering. Harold covered John’s hand at his breast, holding it still, second-guessing their plan to make the hospital visit before the milking. The alpha had sworn he was fine, he could wait, that it was better to visit Fusco first. Now Harold wasn’t so sure.

From outside there were muffled voices, the sound of a cart being wheeled past. The hand on his breast was squeezing gently. Harold tried to concentrate on reining in, tamping down. At this rate, if they weren’t careful, the scent of them might draw someone to open the closet door. He resolutely moved John’s hand away. He heard him sigh.

It was almost as if the alpha wanted to be caught, was deliberately courting the danger of being discovered. There was a sudden peremptory knock on the door and Harold’s heart leapt in his chest. He blinked in the flood of light, their hiding place no longer hidden. John faced the guard alpha.

“Respect,” the guard said, dipping his head. “I’ve been instructed to offer you a private space in the doctor’s lounge, sirs. Follow me, please.”

Harold followed reluctantly, his face hot. This was exactly the kind of deference he’d shunned since his youth, the privilege of his breed. He experienced it as an invasion of his privacy. No doubt it was common for omega physicians to avail themselves of such amenities but it made Harold very uncomfortable.

“Doctor,” one of the physicians on rounds glanced up at him in greeting, she smiled, casting a glance at John and back at him with a nod of approval. Harold was fraught. He was indeed quite proud of his alpha and pleased for her to notice his strength, his good looks. Pleased also that the ring could be sensed and marked him as owned. But it took getting used to, this public display, natural as it might be for others, for him … it was unnatural. That fact that there were four people, the staff alpha, and the trio of doctors, all aware that he was about to engage in sexual activity, was disturbing.


	21. The Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to give a shout out to strawberriesandtophats for the chess imagery that stuck with me after reading her excellent story "A solid defense strategy."

The privacy suite of the doctors’ lounge was organized around a cushioned platform, something Harold was familiar with from the days he spent with Nathan during his cycles. It was commonly known as a throne. It led a double life depending upon how an omega chose to use it. It could be a means of positioning for sex, or it could be used to position a lesser for punishment. Harold had no intention of arraying himself over its curves. He’d never felt closer to punishing the alpha.

Heart still thudding from the uncomfortable interaction in the hospital corridor, he stood as distant from John as he could, his eyes roaming from the racks draped with bed towels, to the wall mounted selection of canes, striking implements, and prods. There were also medical sleeves, hung in their sterile packaging. He swallowed hard and turned to face the alpha.

John stood just inside the door, watching him, his need palpable, his expression alert but questioning.

“I think you owe me something, Harold.” His voice suggested he would invoke their contract but that he felt no assurance he’d be given what he was owed.

“We discussed this,” Harold said, unbending. He folded his arms across his chest. He felt close to flaring, the urge to send his body’s resistance outward.

“Circumstances change,” the alpha said. “You want to punish me, I can see it in your eyes. For what … changing my mind?” His tone was careful. Harold felt him reaching to understand.

For everything, Harold thought, hating his own anguish and John for pushing him to it. 

“I’ve told you that I am a very private person,” he said. He thought this should be sufficient explanation, but the alpha continued to look to him for an answer. “I don’t care to have particulars of my life displayed to strangers. I definitely do not wish to be groped in a closet or to attract attention. We had an agreement to wait,” he insisted.

It was more than the uncomfortable occurrence in the the corridor that was upsetting him. He felt it as he spoke. It was the surface rippling of a deeper current. What had happened shouldn’t take on such significance, but it did. He felt threatened. It was as if John Reese was a strong tide, eroding the carefully constructed island Harold lived on. Nathan had functioned like a bridge. John was relentless surf, threatening to engulf him. It was the prospect of bonding.

“We’ve had a number of agreements,” John said, before breaking eye contact.

He shrugged off his jacket and began undressing. Harold watched him, unsure of what to say or do. He still felt charged with resistance but couldn’t take his eyes off him. Was he going to insist on the milking, present his engorged cock? Oh god. Harold was afraid of what that would do to him, how he could resist it. He suddenly wanted to walk out, to leave him untended, escape from the demanding alpha and all the dangerous changes he represented.

It was too late to walk away. From this room or from John Reese. Bond or no bond, this alpha’s scent and his aura had permeated Harold. He couldn’t walk away from him, didn’t really want to walk away from him, despite the impulse to flee. Was this love? He didn’t know, but he knew he couldn’t deny or escape the connection that he felt to him, even if it rendered part of him crazy with panic. 

His arms fell away from his chest as he watched John spread towels over the throne, kneel on the base of it and bend over its curve, presenting himself for punishment. He drew in a deep breath. His own body’s response was a confusion of desire and tension.

Harold stood beside him. He rested a hand on the small of John’s back and with the other he stroked the firm cheek of his ass. He wouldn’t take a cane to him, ever. He would never shock the alpha, but he drew his hand back and smacked the most well-fleshed part of his butt. There was a need he felt to strike out at him, a protest that demanded physical expression. He knew he wasn’t truly hurting him, but the skin was becoming pink as he continued to strike him. He took aim at the base, the area above the ring where the milk sacs were full under the surface. John uttered a groan and Harold stopped. His hand was stinging and his anger had dissipated. His own arousal was becoming intense. With careful fingertips he probed the sensitive area.

 

***

When they were alone in the privacy suite the omega was as rigid as a carved chess piece; the most important piece, alone on the board, defenses stripped but still representing power. He stood very still, as far away from John as he could get. His arms were crossed on his chest and he was radiating displeasure. The alpha had no idea what his own next move should be.

The supply closet that he’d checked out early in the evening had seemed like a good, quick possibility for concealment. It’s use for a place to get Finch into his arms had been too tempting to resist. He had imagined lifting his omega onto a convenient shelf and fucking him, letting their scents spill and dare anyone to walk in. He’d hardly gotten his hands on him before the guard interrupted.

He’d been proud to escort his sweet-smelling omega past the envious eyes of others, preening a little because he wore the ring of an important consulting physician. Being discovered in the hideaway suggested that his omega’s desire for him was extreme, which also enhanced him in the eyes of others. Finch, as Dr Crow, showed appropriate disdain at being interrupted in dallying with his alpha. A perfect expression of superiority, but John began to sense something else going on. Something more serious and not play-acting the part of the doctor. Alone with him, it became painfully clear that Harold was really upset and John didn’t understand why.

How had he angered him? Harold had never offered more than a frown or a soft flare. John wanted him so badly, admired him so fiercely, but did not begin to understand him. That Finch wanted to punish him seemed obvious, he could taste his anger. He could see how he contemplated the punishment tools on the wall. It was his right, whether John understood why or not. 

It wasn’t easy to pivot from his expectation of milking to acceptance of discipline. John had nothing to trust but his instincts, nothing else to guide him. Those instincts said, offer yourself, yield to the omega.

The first touches, on his back and caressing his ass were soft. What followed was the smack of a bare hand. Of course. Harold would never use a cane or a prod. The hand striking him had some impact but it was … not painful. A kitten could do more damage attacking a paper bag, he thought. Definitely not painful. It was the opposite, intimate and arousing, warming his ass with the stimulated blood flow. His cock swelled impossibly harder. The aggression in the omega’s aura fed his excitement. He struggled to control himself, not because it hurt, but because he wanted desperately to rub himself on the towel-covered padding under him.

When the steady blows stopped, the gentle fingertips exploring made him groan aloud with pleasure, releasing a stream of milk. If Harold left him like this … true punishment would begin.

“Please get up, John.”

He sat on the towel that was damp now with his milk, his cock throbbing inside its gold ring. He was not above pleading a little with his eyes though he kept quiet, waiting to see what the omega would do.

Again, he thought, whatever obstacles Harold threw in his path, he’d overcome them. Because the omega was worth it. Tentatively he reached out and whatever demons had been deviling him must have been cast out. Harold let himself be drawn close and didn’t stop John from lifting the shirt off him or untying the drawstring of his pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've stuck pretty close to the chronology of the season one episodes but after this I think I will be leaping ahead and hewing less to canon!


	22. Leila And Andrea

John stumbled on uneven ground between two of Elias’s beta thugs. His hands were zip-tied behind his back and there was a bag over his head. He could have taken them, fought his way free, but he was the one who’d requested this meeting in the middle of the night. The life of an innocent beta pup, a bright-eyed baby girl named Leila, mattered more than his fighting pride or the bad blood between him and Elias.

When the hood was removed he found himself on an unfamiliar stretch of industrial waterfront. The omega stood before him, his expression deceptively warm, his power contained but not hidden. Light from a nearby bridge cast a hazy glow over the scene. At the boss’s side, his top alpha.

“John. It’s good to see you again. So tell me … you fall out with your boss? You looking for a job?” This was quiet bravado, a kind of taunting. John knew Elias could smell the scent of an omega on him, could sense his ring, but there was an undercurrent, not that different from what he’d felt from Zoe. He couldn’t imagine this guy with a stable like hers … it would be more like a kennel of caged fighting dogs. Or maybe just the one pit bull, he thought, aware of the scarred alpha flanking Elias. He wasn’t ringed or bonded but John sensed a brand.

“I’m looking for help.”

“From me. Why would I help you?” John was gambling … with a dangerous opponent.

“I saved your life.”

“You did, didn’t you,” he conceded. “But you also broke up a little family reunion that I had planned. That was you, wasn’t it.” No point in denying it. He’d given Carter a rigorous assist in getting Gino Moretti from prison to a safe house. People had gone down, maybe lair.

He acknowledged it with a tilt of his chin. Elias shook his head in bemusement, but at same time John could taste his admiration. What existed between them was complicated, genuine feelings, at least on John’s part. As a thoughtful, caring beta teacher, he'd impressed John. His gentleness, his scholarly air had reminded him of Finch. The betrayal had been painful.

“Honest to a fault. What’s this about?”

It was as an interplay of their energies as much as it was their spoken words. John did not preen, even when he felt Elias’s admiration. Instead he mirrored, reflecting the omega’s containment. He turned the flame of his power into candlelight, stroking him with the tone of his voice to make the case for order and a code that protected children, even among lawbreakers. The deliberate downplay of his energy said — you know how strong I am, but I am making myself gentle. John could sense it raising the hackles on the alpha, but he didn’t care. Let the fool challenge him if he wanted to.

He was the one, Anthony was his name, who took him back to the drop off point and gave him the address he needed. He told John, “I woulda just shot ya, but the boss has a soft spot for you.” How he felt about that was clear in the roil of his energy. John ignored it, offering no challenge.

Elias had given him what he needed, but he gave nothing for free. John expected the price to be steep but was shocked by how fast the bill came due. The address panned out, but he’d no sooner fought his way through to the child, had her in his arms, than Anthony put a gun to his head and he was surrounded by Elias’s crew, guns drawn.

“The boss changed his mind.”

John didn’t flare or fight, not with the muzzle close to his skull and the pup in his arms. Not with Anthony hot for any excuse and a trio of guns on them.

“We had an agreement.” John said. He was being cuffed inside an empty truck. Elias was approaching with the baby in his arms. There was nothing John could do, as long as Leila was hostage.

“We did,” Elias admitted, holding the baby in a surprisingly tender way against his chest, rocking her a little. “But then I realized there is something you can do for me.” He fixed his mild brown eyes on John. “Tell me where Moretti is.”

The omega’s need for vengeance … it trumped anything John could offer, any plea he could make. He knew where Carter had stashed the old alpha but he couldn’t betray her. She might not be lair but she was Finch’s asset, Lionel’s partner; she’d stuck her neck out for them.

“I don’t know,” he lied, but his hormone levels were climbing as Leila was handed into the truck with him and and laid on the bare steel floor, crying. Her distress wrenched him and he flared, uselessly. The omega was unaffected and Anthony, at a distance, was sickened but stayed upright.

“This is a refrigerated truck, John.” The bastard was unearthly calm, placing a baby monitor close to him, his soft voice unruffled, sympathetic. “It’ll get very cold, very quickly. You’ll be able to hold on for a few hours, but this little one on the other hand … just shout if you change your mind.”

“Elias … don’t do this,” John begged … and then threw his rage as hard as he could, but the omega was walking away and the steel door came down, locking them in. Cold air poured over them in a mist and the temperature started dropping fast.

The horror of the pup’s suffering, her helpless cries; John thought there could be nothing worse. He roared in anger, pitting every ounce of his strength against the bar he was cuffed to, numbed to the pain in his hands and bloody wrists. Her crying tore at him but her silence was worse as she succumbed to the cold.

His relentless assault busted the bar free from of its moorings — but not fast enough. It wasn’t enough. He still had no way out. He gathered Leila in his arms as well as he could with his wrists still cuffed, trying to warm her. He would lose her. He was powerless. Harold would never, could never forgive him. That he’d ever dared to offer himself, broken, failed, as a mate … this must be the punishment.

“Elias.” He could barely speak. “Elias, all right.” God, let him still be there, let the baby live.

“Yes, John.”

“You win,” his voice was weak.

“We both win, John. Where is Moretti?”

“What guarantee do I have?”

“You don’t.”

It was over. This was defeat. He told him where to find his father, the man he wanted to punish for the death of his mother. John prayed it wasn’t too late for the pup in his arms.

“Thank you, John. You were right. I would never harm a child. But then I knew … you wouldn’t either … good bye, John.”

He screamed the omega’s name and a the key was thrown under the door.

 

***

Harold stood beside John on the dark street, watching a warm scene bathed in golden light through a window. Sammy and Veda Cruz, Leila’s grandparents. They were fussing over her, enveloping her in their love.

His relief was great. He could breathe easily in a way that had been virtually impossible from the moment he’d stolen a vulnerable pup from a private clinic. On his own, while John was working with Detective Carter, Harold had once again donned his doctor’s coat and gone looking for their new number, a beta female. He had no information beyond her social security number and a location. He expected to discover that she was a nurse or a patient at a small medical facility on the Upper East Side. Instead he’d found a six-month old pup; a safe haven baby in imminent danger.

This number might have been even rougher on the alpha than on him, he thought. John was subdued, watching silently at his side. He was battle-worn and Harold could scent the build up of milk in him. He knew John felt guilty for the fate of the injured cop, the one who’d been guarding Moretti. Guilty for the betrayal of Carter’s trust. He wondered if he’d seek punishment for these things and hoped he would not.

He needed to see to John’s injuries; the blood stained cuffs of his shirt hadn’t escaped his notice. John claimed it was nothing but Harold wanted to see for himself.

He would take him to the safe house that was now the home of their second beta, Andrea Gutierrez. It was her night and Harold knew she was expecting them. She had gotten wrapped up in this case and the fate of Leila, fielding communications, researching their legal options. All of it on top of her own considerable workload. Harold could picture her in her flannel pajamas and robe, her long brown hair braided down her back; a surprisingly comforting image. The beta, he thought, comforts the omega.

It was barely a month since she’d joined them. Since Harold had given in to his alpha’s urging. A lot had gone into the shift in his mindset, but much of it came down to acceptance that his life was changing. The punishment incident at the hospital had been a turning point for him. He considered what he’d done shameful, a childish acting out of his fears. If there were such a thing as reasoned punishment (and the very concept disturbed him) it should never be administered in anger.

Somehow talk had shifted that night to the possibility of a second beta. Harold had a sense that it was something John had been considering for a while, waiting for the right time to talk about it. The most persuasive thing he’d said was, “Andrea Gutierrez doesn’t have to know anything more about us than she already does, Harold.”

He was nervous before meeting with her. At the time he’d agreed to it, it had seemed like a small thing, an offering to John. The night had been so emotionally charged, between his outburst at the hospital, the passionate coupling that followed, and then their intimate dinner at the library. Chinese food, a meal that was becoming a ritual for them at the end of a case. He’d taken pains over dinner to explain himself to John, to apologize.

The alpha had wanted no apology.

“I liked it,” he’d said.

“That’s not the point, John. I’m aware that … the contact was arousing.” Very aware, exquisitely aware. “But, it wasn’t appropriate for me to express myself that way.” The way John smiled at him made him think again of Nathan saying Olivia’s occasional punishment made him feel loved. Confusing for Harold, he consciously shelved speculation.

In bed, John proved he’d listened to him, that he understood Harold’s fear of change. He had suggested that changes could be gradual, a little at a time so he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed. He could meet, for instance, with a potential beta, someone who was already familiar with the work they did, if not the details. No decision had to be made. Just talk.

The meeting would take place at the safe house apartment which Ms Gutierrez had already seen. It was a luxurious bi-level apartment Harold had owned for years, pre-dating his injuries. He’d bought it secretly, as a surprise for Nathan, thinking it could become an alternative for them to meetings in hotels. As it had turned out, Nathan preferred the well-equipped hotel suite and they never used the apartment.

It was the place he’d had John take the young lawyer for her safety when they were working her case. 

Harold had never met her in person. He’d seen her picture, of course, heard her voice. He’d been deeply involved in saving her life. For the meeting he sat across the dining table from her. John sitting off to the side.

In her physical presence he felt an unexpected affection, as if a character in a story he’d helped to write had come to life before him. The auras of betas were considered low intensity by comparison to alphas and omegas, but Harold felt something from her. An impression of warmth, of kindness.

She had arrived with a heavy-looking briefcase. Amazing to see that much paper in the so-called digital age, Harold thought, watching her sort by fingertip through sheafs of documents to find the file she wanted. He supposed it was still a paper reality for lawyers. She’d brought a detailed list of carefully outlined conditions and demands.

“Talking points,” she assured him, no doubt to cushion the effect of the thick stack in front of her. “Thanks to you, and the willingness of the City and Child Services to settle their cases, I have more to offer and I can afford to be a little more picky about the lair I choose. I’ve been looking for a while but haven’t found the right fit.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what arrangements do you currently have?”

“Alumni privileges at my law school lair. It’s good for another year, but I’d like to get out on my own.”

“I see. Shall we go through your list?” He was feeling more calm by then and wondering what she was looking for. They talked for a long time. John brought them tea and coffee somewhere along the line, and then sandwiches.

The items on her extensive list included a guaranteed residence, control of at least half of her own money, physical proximity guarantees — this provision had many subsets, limitations on punishment and interference.

“In exchange for these considerations,” she’d said, sliding the papers toward Harold for him to look over. “I’m willing to contribute my earnings to the lair and do whatever I can to assist you in your unique endeavors with my friend John, here. It would be a wonderful thing to help you do for others what you did for me.”

“You’re not … curious about where our information comes from?” he’d asked her. She’d smiled at him. Harold found himself quite taken in.

“I don’t want to know. It’s for my protection, and yours, Harold. I trust it is completely legal and above board.” Her smile widened and dimpled, telling him she thought it might very well be completely illegal and that it didn’t matter to her; she would insulate herself. 

He’d looked down at the papers she’d brought. He did want her. John had been right to urge him toward her. He wanted to believe he could have this and keep her safe.

“There would be no need for you to contribute your money, Ms Gutierrez.”

“Andrea, please,” she corrected him.

“Andrea.” He liked her name. He liked her, very much. “If this apartment would suit your needs,” he said, looking up to meet her eyes, “it will be yours.” Her eyebrows had lifted in surprise and pleasure.

“I do like it, Harold.”

“There is nothing we’ve discussed that I take exception to. I am not a proponent of … punishment. Your stipulations are more than fair.”

“Then,” she’d said, eyes crinkling with a delighted smile, “I believe we’ve reached an agreement. I’ll draw up the contract and we’ll make it official.”

“Indeed.”

The contract was generous to her … and to him in ways that mattered, his privacy foremost. When they next met, to seal the agreement officially, he gave her a ring for her hand in addition to the key to the apartment. The ring was marked with the same imprint as John’s cock ring. It occurred to Harold, when he gave it to her, that he should offer some token to Fusco. John disagreed. “You’ll spoil him. He needs to earn it.” 

 

Andrea was indeed in her flannel pajamas and robe, as Harold had suspected she would be, when they arrived at the safe house. Her eyes met his in sympathy at the door. Though dressed for bed, he knew she’d been up working, waiting to hear from him. Her books and papers were spread out at the long dining table.

“Let’s get that coat off,” she said, reaching up to John’s shoulders. She had a no-nonsense approach to the alpha. Harold was grateful to have someone help him break through what felt like a wall of misery around him. “You saved a baby,” she said. She was not a big person but she acted with authority. “You had to trade Moretti.”

“He isn’t the only one I put at risk,” the alpha said, his voice low and raspy. She reached out and squeezed his arm. Harold felt a brief fear that he would forcibly reject her, but John allowed the touch.

“Szymanski’s in bad shape,” she told him, not resisting his gaze. “But he’s gonna make it, John. Carter is pissed at you, upset with herself, but believe me, she’d have made the same choice in your place. Now let Harold take care of you. You boys are staying here tonight, right?” She let go of him, looking to Harold.

“Yes, we are. Thank you,” he said, more grateful than he could express.

In the bathroom, Harold cleaned John’s wrists and wrapped them in gauze. He worked quietly, as gently as he could. The skin was badly abraded and deeply bruised. There were some raw places on the palm of one hand. He consciously poured his energy into them, into the alpha.

The bathroom was well-appointed but not very large. Andrea’s bedroom had the spacious master-bath with the luxurious tub. John sat on the closed toilet, the sink was right beside it where he rested his arm.

He finally spoke. “What if she’d been our baby, Harold.” John didn’t look at him when he said it. Harold’s heart contracted with concern, discovering the direction of his alpha’s thoughts. It wasn’t just guilt over Moretti and Carter.

“I’ve told you, John. It’s not something I can give you. But if … for the sake of discussion, Leila were ours. I would be satisfied that you did everything in your power to protect her. There is no … punishment required.” He stroked the tape on the gauze bandage to secure it, caressing lightly. John looked up at him, searching him; his mouth slightly open to access channels for tasting his scent.

***

Harold wasn’t lying to him. John ached. He needed relief. He needed to see Harold’s naked skin, to touch it and kiss it. He reached up to start unbuttoning the pretty vest. So much clothing, always so much clothing in his way. The omega gave off an eddy of sexual smells, coloring his comforting scent with luscious spice. He was assisting John, unknotting and loosening the tie, making no protest of having his chest bared.

Why did he always insist there would be no pups? The little tits would swell with milk if he were pregnant. John could drink it and the thought was dream-like as he sucked a soft nipple and as much surrounding flesh into his mouth as he could. What he understood well enough when his head was clear meant nothing to his desire. No pups, not safe, but he saw him in his mind with a babe in his arms, at his breast.

He let go of Harold long enough to rip open his own pants and free his erection.

The lid of the toilet chilled his bare ass, it helped him get some control of his longings, helped him be gentle getting Harold’s pants down and out of his way, to turn him around and guide him onto his cock. They’d used this position now a few times, the omega in his lap, his back against John’s chest. What it cost him in depth, in room to maneuver and thrust, it more than made up for in allowing him to hold him wrapped in his arms, feel the weight of him on his thighs as he was milked.


	23. Beta Handmaiden

Andrea’s new lair was unlike anything she’d imagined for herself. It meant something more than a group of lawyers living and breathing as a firm. She’d been trying to get into a professional lair since starting her practice. The costs were steep and the lack of respect ran deeper than she expected. Her poor background, her convicts for clients. The status she’d worked so hard to earn with her law degree, the honors she’d graduated with, barely got her through the door of any prestigious, established lair. A lot of the lairs that had rejected her were suddenly interested when her suit against the city made a splash in the media. She’d been weighing her options, not so eager to be taken in by the people who didn’t want her before. Then John had appeared with his surprising offer. The possibility of something very different.

Harold was “the boss” John had pretended to be bringing a suit against, the “eccentric, loner type.” He really was eccentric in many ways, she thought, and very protective of his privacy, but it didn’t begin to describe him. Rare, is how she would start. Refined-looking, like he never wore or handled things that weren’t well-made, but without even a hint that he considered himself superior. Someone like Harold should be aloof, she thought, not so sweetly accessible. She tried not to stare at him during their meeting but he fascinated her, his expressions, his careful way of speaking. How good it felt to sit near him, especially when he would meet her eyes. Like basking in a warm patch of sunshine — a sense that his power was vast but shining in a special way, just for her. She had her lists, her conditions, but she was already praying he would take her.

He and John had found some way to learn about people in danger, and help them. She suspected it involved snooping in ways that were probably not completely above board, but she considered herself a good enough judge of character to trust them. She was grateful to them. Such a small but special lair, committed to much more than amassing wealth and prestige, it meant something to her.

The effects of her new omega’s energy were quickly felt. In the course of a month, a host of small ailments and physical complaints that she’d been taking for granted, disappeared. Her skin was glowing, her hair seemed more glossy. She noticed that her nails were stronger. A nagging ache in her lower back had disappeared and she found she had more energy. Harold was an incredible anchor.

And then there was John.

Alphas in general were not her favorite people. She’d grown up seeing the worst side of the breed, the gang enforcers, the tough guys. The good ones had been few and far between. Her experience with them broadened in school and in her young career, but she was still wary.

John was different. When he’d come to her as a client she had sensed the danger he embodied, the strength, but there was something tempering it. There was something thoughtful, almost sensitive about him. Meeting Harold, she felt she understood John better, like she’d met another part of him. It surprised her that they were not bonded, their energies felt so well-attuned.

“Andrea.” John had emerged from the back of the apartment. She looked up from her laptop and smiled to see the tension gone from his face, the luminous, peaceful air that milking gave him. She could appreciate it, knowing she did not have to bear any responsibility for bringing it about. One of her conditions — she would reject any offer that required milking of alphas. “Come to bed. No more work tonight. He’s sleepy but he’s still awake, asking for you.”

This just about melted her.

In the proximity clause of their contract, she’d asked to have a night each week. She knew of lairs in which omegas were intimate with their betas, physically, sexually. It was rarely guaranteed (and she knew better than to require it.) It fell into the traditional realm of favors. For Harold to spend the night, or even part of the night at the apartment once a week was enough, but she’d always dreamed of something closer and told him so. When she’d confided that to him during their negotiations, he’d blushed but said, “I will certainly bear that in mind … Andrea.”

The omega took good care of the alpha. She was reassured by her freedom from their coupling, but Harold’s shy offer for her to join them in the peaceful sleep after sex was the kind of closeness she wanted. The bed was fragrant with the omega’s spice which rendered the alpha smells inoffensive to her. She had beta friends who were drawn to the intensity of alphas but she was not. She’d dated mostly beta men but had had a fairly serious relationship with another beta young woman in school. It had opened her eyes to other possibilities. The lure of an omega like Harold was something else, more sensual than sexual to her. She loved his touch. He slept on his side between them, his arm around her, and the alpha’s arm around them both. She hadn’t slept as well since childhood. But this night she was drawn out of her deep sleep by a soft sound of distress from Harold, like a puppy having a bad dream, his arm tightening around her. 

 

***

 

John struggled up from sleep, from a dream of rutting, to find himself wreathed in a scent he had never breathed before, like peaches steeping in brandy — his hard cock was wedged between the omega’s wet thighs. Harold was making quiet, plaintive sounds and was feverishly warm all along John’s belly and chest.

“What?” Andrea’s sleepy voice, and another soft sound from Harold.

John tried to cast off the haze of dreaming, to speak, but all he wanted was to bite down and fuck. The bedcovers shifted as Andrea moved in the darkness and the bedside light came on low.

“Harold,” she said. Her sleepy face was full of concern. “Your cycle’s starting. John, is it always like this, no warning?”

He didn’t know, was unprepared. Why hadn’t he kept track of the omega’s meds, been ready? So much softness sliding against him, he could hardly think.

“I don’t know,” he said, shuddering. She looked at him, stunned. He didn’t try to explain or make excuses. “I can’t … “

“All right,” she said. “It’ll be all right. Don’t worry, Harold.” Her eyes strayed to the omega and she reached out. John felt a moment’s comfort even though it was Harold’s bright cheek she touched with a cool hand before taking off. John stroked Harold’s hip in what he hoped was a calming gesture before reaching between them to guide his cock inside him.

 

***

 

Andrea had learned young about the needs of omegas in heat. Her mother was a practical nurse and midwife -- and she was also an unofficial handmaid. As a child she’d helped her mother take care of their own anchor as well as many others in neighboring lairs. Intimate needs arose from days on end of mating — tasks her mother often carried out under the glaring eyes of inflamed alphas. Handmaid was an old fashioned role, made scarce by modern medical practices and commercial products. Once upon a time in a wealthy, powerful lair, the beta handmaid would be a position of status and respect. The role survived among the poor.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Andrea threw on clothes and headed out in the cold to the closest all night pharmacy. The place was brightly lit but quiet except for the incongruous soundtrack of recycled pop songs. A few sleepy souls browsing, a couple of anxious people waiting for prescriptions. She walked down the cycling care aisle, eyes roaming the lubricants and analgesic creams. She looked for the brands she knew Harold preferred. She glanced at the prepared drink mixes and boxes of energy bars. She trusted her mother’s recipes more than these products and headed for the grocery and baby care aisles to get the necessary supplies.

She would have expected someone as smart as her omega was to be well-equipped, prepared. The truth was, as well as she felt she was coming to know him at an elemental level, she knew very few details about his history or lifestyle. It was clear that this part of his life wasn’t one he’d given enough attention to.

It’s good that I’m here, she thought, putting a multi-pack of baby bottles in her hand cart, grateful for lessons learned in childhood, her mother’s lore. Though she’d been kept clear of rutting alphas she knew John would have needs too. He’d be better able to help himself; most alphas were capable of foraging for what they needed. Some would tend their omegas, but most were oblivious to any hunger but their own, leaving care to betas. Andrea would look after them both. Food for John, formula, tea, and energy squares for her omega. Poor Harold. The more she thought of his shyness and his physical challenges, the more she worried for how he’d bear his cycle. It was incredible to her that John knew nothing, that they had never gone through this.

At home in the kitchen she set to work.

 

***

 

John would never have tolerated another alpha or an outsider of any breed having the intimate access to Harold’s body that he ceded to Andrea. He’d never had an omega to himself in his life, but having achieved this status with Harold, he wouldn’t give it up (without a fight.) But it was correct, and it was satisfying to him for Harold to touch their betas. Fusco needed to be kept at some distance (except when he was injured) until he was less crude, less dirty. Lionel’s paws weren’t worthy to touch Harold. The cop was proving himself, day by day, and John was protective of him as lair, but he’d earned no token and he sure as hell wouldn’t be welcome in their bed.

Andrea was another story. He wanted her to have the reward of closeness and Harold’s tenderness toward her gave John a feeling of pleasure very much like what he felt when he saw him interact with pups.

She was the highest tier of beta, in his opinion. Her goodness enhanced him, made him feel stronger, and made him feel like he was providing for his omega. That she was there when Harold’s heat came on was something he would be forever grateful for. Lost himself in the sea of mating pheromones, he was in no shape to provide the care and support she gave. All he wanted was to be buried inside his omega’s cunt, knotted to his hot little body. The needy sounds and the smell of him were making him crazy.

Fucking wasn't enough. Trying to stay in him, not to hurt him, but desperate to get what he wanted, John rucked the covers into an awkward pile and nearly dragged Harold on top of it. His body knew the angle it needed and he blindly struggled to get it, to thrust his swelling knot into him. The omega's whimpers quieted into panting breaths under him when the alpha succeeded. John lowered his head to breathe deep at the damp neck and shoulder, even though it tortured him with longing.

“Yes.” Harold's voice was strained, it was muffled by the pillow, but John heard it. He brushed his lips over the forbidden place. The omega shivered. “Yes.” He heard him say it again, and his relief ran almost as deep as his pleasure. He licked him, he bit down gently, and licked again. He sucked for a while in a daze of bliss. No food, no water, he could live his life here, he thought, with nothing but this small territory to endlessly claim with his mouth.


	24. Phone Booth In The Snow

The cycle swept him up like a storm. He’d been so careful, so careful and cautious with John. Afraid that bonding would bring on his heat. Afraid that if he succumbed to a cycle it would means lives lost, numbers they couldn’t save while he was enslaved to his body’s needs. Careful with John, he’d left himself wide open with Andrea, eager to nurture his beautiful new beta. Lulled by what felt so innocently rewarding, the joy of showering her with affection and energy. He’d been lowering his dose of suppressant for her, especially on the nights they spent with her, so he could bathe her in pheromones. The conscious controls he exerted to tamp down his aura, to contain himself, he abandoned when she slept in his arms.

He understood what he’d done when she laid her hand on his feverish cheek and said, “Harold, your cycle is starting.” It was like someone speaking in a dream. He heard her ask John if it was always like this and the alpha’s confusion. Harold wanted to answer her himself, “No, it was never like this …” but his thoughts were remote and it seemed impossible to speak.

Filled with the alpha’s cock, Harold surrendered to pleasure. As if he’d fought the edge of a cliff he let go and soared. His nerve endings thrilled at John’s warm breath and lips on his shoulder. Inside he was crying out ‘yes,’ but he couldn’t connect his voice to his will. Yes, yes. At last he managed to utter a paltry sound. Yes. There was no more need to hold back. He put more breath into the word and forced it out so the alpha could hear him. “Yes.” The heat had come and the urge to bond was singing in his blood. He ached for it to be completed. Every nuzzle and bite released the chemicals that would bind them. When John sucked and licked at the skin it was heaven for Harold, like a subtle milking of his essence, making the alpha his own.

 

***

John could still smell Harold, still taste him in his mouth as he rested against a brick wall near a streetlight. Waiting. Light snowflakes were falling from the predawn sky and melting gently on his skin. John looked up and almost smiled. The time would come that the snow turned gray with soot, gritty and ugly. It would turn the city streets into a slushy nightmare, but it seemed magical to him in the moment, in a way it hadn’t in a very long time.

The omega. ‘My omega,’ the thought sank through him with narcotic sweetness. Harold might be a little crazy with his cycle but John was doing exactly what he’d asked of him. Standing on the street by a public phone booth (in sight of a street cam) waiting for it to ring. Crazy.

“I need you to go out, John.” It was the first clear thing Harold had said to him after the first fever passed. Leaving his side was the last thing John wanted to do.

“No,” he’d said as gently as he could. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need you to,” he’d pleaded. “The numbers, John. They don’t stop. If we get the number, Fusco could work it. Carter can help him.”

He was serious. Delirious or not, he was desperate for John to do this thing. His blue eyes beseeched him, his flushed face was filled with need. Was it really possible that all this time Harold had been getting the numbers from public telephones?

All he wanted was to be back in that bed, steeped in Harold. But he’d been given a task, a crazy task, and there would be no welcome for him until it was done. Andrea had looked at him like he’d lost his mind when he emerged from the bedroom and announced he was going out.

“Harold needs me to do something,” he told her. “I couldn't say no to him.” At that her eyes had become sympathetic.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll take care of him. Get back as soon as you can.”

If nothing happened after fifteen minutes, Harold said, he could come back and they’d try again at the next chance.

When the phone rang, John was so focused on wanting it to ring he could hardly believe his ears. He picked it up almost hesitantly, his heart beating hard, and listened. Nine words. Like a poem. The magic words that fulfilled his quest, exactly as Harold promised.

 

***

Fusco snapped his phone shut. He didn’t feel like making a trip out to Queens in the snow. Especially not when he and Carter had nothing on tap but the last of some paperwork. He was expecting an easy morning and looking forward to an afternoon basking in the steam room with a lazy boner, courtesy of Olga. Carter was looking at him, a raised eyebrow, like she knew something was up from his phone call. What the hell. He reminded himself he only had the sweet massages and steam because of the nutty professor and his dangerous sidekick.

“Mystery tip from Wonder Boy,” he confessed. “Wanna go with?”

“Sure.” Carter was something. She was like the better angel on his shoulder, keeping him honest. She did good stuff, because she was good. No reward. Fusco was liking what it felt like to remember that motivation.


	25. A Steamy Bath, A Baby's Bottle

John opened the bathroom door and the air pouring out was steamy. Andrea had drawn a bath for Harold. His omega was propped against a bath pillow, looking sleek and rosy and half asleep. They might not have the master suite, but there was a soaking tub.

“Did you contact Fusco,” Harold asked, rousing a little.

When John had come back with the magic words from his payphone surveillance, Harold had given him another task -- to translate the number. The key was contained in arcane (to John) library science, the Dewey Decimal system. It made sense, given his omega’s cleverness and his love of books. One more mystery revealed. He passed on the information he learned to Fusco.

“Taken care of.”

He shed his own clothes in the warm air, enjoying the way Harold’s sleepy eyes watched him. Most of the bubbles had dissolved from the bath but little drifts of foam dotted the surface.

“Andrea?” Harold asked.

“Getting ready for work.”

John washed himself at the sink — luxurious baths were for the omega. Later he’d find time to shower. When he was dried, he turned to his mate to present himself. He touched his cock ring, feeling for the imprint with his thumb. He didn’t need the ring any more to mark him as Harold’s. No one could mistake him now for a rogue, a ronin or masterless samurai. He carried the scent of a powerful omega and Harold’s proprietary, loving gaze affirmed his ownership. But John loved the ring. He loved it as a gift, as an adornment, for the way it subtly lifted his balls and his cock forward. 

“You’re beautiful,” Harold said. “Come closer.” 

John knelt by the tub and leaned over to kiss him, dipping his hands into the hot water to feel the omega’s slippery flesh. “I’ll bathe you,” he told him. Harold had been soaking in the hot soapy water long enough to need no washing, it was an excuse to handle him.

Andrea had left by the time they came out, but she’d remade the bed for them before going — for which the alpha was very grateful. New linens, fresh toweling.

Harold seemed exhausted but at least he was clean and dry, for the moment. 

The bonding had subtly altered how John saw him, and how he smelled to him. It was as if he’d admired him from a distance before, always striving to reach him, and now the distance was gone.

Something on the nightstand had gotten Harold’s attention and John looked to see what it was. A bottle of the formula. 

“Will you drink some? She made it special for you.”

“I’ll try,” Harold said. He sounded reluctant and sleepy.

John stretched out beside him with the bottle and he teased at Harold’s lips with the nipple. Squeezing the bottle’s sides he dripped a little on his bottom lip (his favorite one, the one that pouted.) He smiled when Harold tentatively tasted it. He seemed to like it and opened his mouth.

“It’s good, isn’t it,” John murmured, enjoying Harold’s enjoyment. The blue-eyed gaze met his. “Not as good as my milk,” he teased, and it earned him a look that reproached him and loved him at the same time. 

John had tasted the mixture, curious, when she was preparing the bottles in the kitchen. The taste reminded him of a creamy cocktail. Spicy, sweet, not something he’d choose to drink.

He edged closer along the omega’s side to feel the softness of him against his naked body. Harold was cool from the washing, from the ebb in the cycle. John had thought they might sleep once he got the bottle of formula into him but he was beginning to doubt it, seeing the color rise in Harold’s cheeks. Whatever it was Andrea had put in the drink, it seemed to be working. He was beginning to look more relaxed than depleted and had begun a steady sucking that was reminiscent of the way he urged John’s milk with his mouth. It aroused the alpha to watch. His cock ring shifted behind his balls, the coil expanding as his dick swelled. His need was building. He felt the luxury of time, the expanse of the moment that was filled with Harold.

 

***

 

She didn’t have to trudge through slush in cheap shoes. Andrea stepped out of a hired car onto the cleared pavement, admiring her lovely heels briefly before climbing the steps of the courthouse. She’d left her lair in good shape, taken care of all that she could for the moment. John had wolfed down the egg sandwich she’d had ready for him after his mysterious errand. He’d watched her fill the bottles for Harold.

“Try to get him to drink one after his bath and every few hours or so. And water. Later, feed him a couple of these.” She indicated a plate of dense chocolate squares cooling on a plate. “Omegas in heat are like people doing coke or taking hallucinogenic drugs, they don’t want to take in food. Little bits of chocolate seem to work. This is loaded with good stuff, to keep up his strength.” John reached for one and she allowed it … one for the sake of his curiosity. “They’re for him,” she emphasized. “Not you.” She grinned when he made a face and put it down after a single bite. “It’s flavored to taste good to Harold. Too rich for you. For you, there’s food in the fridge.”

It still baffled her that Harold was so ignorant of his own cycle. He struck her as the kind of person who prepared for things. At the same time, there was something oddly innocent about him. She thought it was possible he’d lived the life of the mind, more than the body. Next time, she thought, she’d make sure he was ready. She trusted John to be careful with Harold’s body, but with their anchor’s mobility issues, they really should have proper furniture to support him. She considered where, in what she thought of as their room, a simple but well-made facilitator (she didn’t like the term, throne) could be placed; hoping they would choose to always spend the cycle with her.

In the halls of the courthouse people were talking about the first winter snow, some grumbling, some excited by it. There was a smell of wet wool in the air. Almost everyone who caught her eye as she made her way to the clerk’s office, smiled at her. She realized that they were responding to the smile on her own face and the traces of scent she carried with her. She felt good. She’d been steeped for hours in the air of her omega’s heat. She was radiating the rich energy she’d taken in back out into the world around her.

 

***

 

Harold’s thoughts were dreamy, drifting. Whatever the drink was that his beta had made for him, it tasted delicious. The sucking felt good, satisfying more than the thirst the water had quenched. John was with him. Was there ever a shade of blue like the color of his alpha’s eyes? Changeable, fascinating. As he drank, he thought he could float away into that blue.

When he’d sent John away to monitor a pay phone, he slept briefly, fitfully. Andrea had come to him and told him she had a bath drawn and ready for him. She’d helped him off the damp towels and out of the soiled sheets into the very warm bathroom. Soaking in the tub he’d felt so tired, so wrung out, that he’d wished he could close his eyes, sleep and wake up to find the heat had ended. The strain of the cycle, the anguish of worry about being out of contact with the machine … then the relief of knowing John had gotten the number, all of it had drained Harold’s physical and mental reserves.

Then his alpha was with him, displaying his strength and beauty, helping him, supporting Harold with his vibrant energy. In John’s presence he felt ready to embrace exactly where he was and what was happening.


	26. Recruiting Shaw

Sam Shaw remembered the big alpha. There weren’t many who could beat her in the ring, no matter how big or muscle bound they were. She was happy to take him on again, had a few ideas about countering those fists of his. This time around he managed to best her again but it was a long hard fight that drew a curious crowd around them. They both had their share of bruises leaving the ring.

Something she liked — he stayed cool even though he was fierce. Most of the big ones she fought took it as a personal insult that they were getting the stuffing knocked out of them by someone as small as she was. It made them easier to beat. This one didn’t get rattled. He didn’t underestimate her and … he was really fucking good. If anything, more in control than the last time they matched up. She could scent his bond. Some alphas mellowed out with a bond, some got more intense. This fucker was ringed and bonded since the last time she saw him and sharper than before.

In the locker room she got a look at his ring. Male alphas; she was amused by how proud they were of their external plumbing, like it was anything but a liability, hanging out there where anything could damage it. She was proud of her own but liked it right where it was, neatly protected inside until she was ready to use it. Still, she thought, a token like that ring would be sweet — an arm band, a circlet for her waist. Yeah, right. Like that was ever gonna happen.

She had an okay situation going for herself. Somewhat new. They’d taken her in at a milk bar in midtown where she worked as a bouncer (she blended in, tamped low, the troublemakers never saw it coming when she took them down.) She had a space in the dorm on an upper floor with a half dozen other low level alphas. It wasn’t great but she got to use the machines twice a month and in between, if she was desperate, there were a couple of beta fluffers who’d help out. It was all right for the time being. There was plenty of meg on hand to breathe. A lot of it was bottled (illegal) but no bar could stay in business without enough of the real thing.

Sam never stayed anywhere very long; problems with authority, attitude. She got fed up … or tossed out. The psych classification didn’t help.

She looked away from the gold spiral, turning her back to the shower spray to soak her hair.

“You’re a good fighter.” It surprised her when he spoke. She’d thought he was more or less oblivious to her after the nod in her direction that said it was cool for her to shower next to him. She glanced at him and met his eyes. Damn right, she thought, but would give the devil his due.

“You’re better,” she said. He didn’t preen.

“I’m bigger. If I was better … it wouldn’t have been so hard to take you down.” He dipped his head to her in an unexpected gesture of respect. There were a lot of things Sam didn’t feel the way other people did but pride sang in her blood like it did in any healthy alpha. The praise flushed her with pleasure. “Are you any good with weapons?” he asked. That made her grin. She liked this guy.

 

***

 

Harold wasn’t as confident about inviting Sameen Shaw into their lair as John was, but he trusted his alpha’s judgement. What weighed heavily in its favor for him was that adding an alpha to their lair would mean less danger to the man who was now his mate. It didn’t occur to him then that his anxiety might actually increase, that he would end up just as invested in her safety.

Her history didn’t tell a promising tale. Itinerant would be the kindest description.

“She has a disorder,” Harold told him. “An emotional impairment. I’m fairly certain it’s been the biggest factor in her drifting from lair to lair. Our young Darren might have described her, in his samurai terms as a ronin.”

“She just hasn’t found the right fit,” John said. He set a bakery box on the table beside Harold’s keyboard. The omega could smell something sweet and buttery. Between those scents and his alpha’s natural spice, Harold had to struggle to keep his focus on objections.

The library was chilly that cold December morning and he’d been warming his hands on his mug of tea from time to time, between delving into what he could learn about Sameen Shaw and updating files on their last number, Adam Saunders, a wall street trader. The case had touched unexpectedly on his own alpha’s recent past, supplying him with new information about the homeless lair where he’d been sheltered for months, hidden from Harold’s surveillance. It touched him deeply to hear John thank the aged omega, Joan, who’d taken him in and saved his life. To hear her ask who was looking after him now … and know that he was the “someone new,” the alpha spoke of. John was his own to care for.

Their new bond was still a source of wonder to Harold, who felt like he daily discovered new aspects of its mysteries. If it were humanly possible to be more aware of John’s presence, his moods, emotions, the flush of his physical health, he was. The gold spiral cock ring, even hidden from view, radiated a rich warmth in Harold’s senses.

He closed the window showing their prospective alpha’s ID photo. The room temperature seemed to rise as John was lowering himself to his knees beside him. John did this so often now that Harold had put a rug there to cushion him. He swiveled his chair to face him, letting his thighs part. It was as ancient a posture as it was still new to Harold, an omega opening his or her legs to allow a favored alpha brief access as an intimate greeting. Of course, as it was pictured in classical art, the alpha wasn’t burrowing and nudging and one didn’t imagine the accompaniment of little moans of alpha pleasure. Maybe, Harold thought, it was a matter of artistic restraint in statuary and paintings more than greater alpha control in centuries past. He stroked John’s glossy hair and tugged on it gently to urge him to look up.

“It was difficult for me to judge from Ms Shaw’s voice if the terms were really satisfactory to her.” Harold had listened but missed parts of the discussions between the two alphas, the phone contact cut off at the gym and at the firing range. He did gather she was good with firearms, a sad necessity.

John sat back on his heels.

“She likes the terms but she wants to meet you.”

Harold frowned. “I thought we agreed that she’d be kept at a distance. That certain things would not be shared.” He felt the old threat of his privacy threatened. “You told me you didn’t think it would be necessary …”

The alpha laid his hand on Harold’s thigh and the sudden constriction he’d felt … relaxed somewhat, though he still felt concerned.

“It’s just a meeting. The terms are maybe a little too good. She’s suspicious. Wants to know you’re for real.”

“Meeting me didn’t exactly fill you with confidence, John. As I recall you remained quite suspicious of my motives.” The alpha’s expression in response was hard to define, not exactly a smile, not really a reproach.

“We’re not going to drug her or tie her to a bed, Harold.” Being reminded of this brought a rush of heat to the omega’s face. How desperate he’d been, how reckless.

“No. No, of course not.” Abashed, he took a deep breath.

“So, you’ll meet her,” John said. Harold nodded and the alpha’s eyes told him how much he loved him. He was up on his knees again, leaning between Harold’s thighs, lifting his chin in the hope of being kissed. Harold didn’t disappoint him, didn’t resist him.


	27. Mel, The Waitress

Shaw was bleary-eyed from a long night of work, followed by too little sleep. She’d set up the meeting at a coffee shop not far from her milk bar; halfway convinced that no one would show. It was a deal that sounded too good to be true. Much too good to be true. Whatever happened, this wouldn’t be a total waste. There was food, she was hungry. A stack of pancakes with an omelet on the side or a plate of steak and eggs, maybe.

“What’ll you have, Sam?” Her favorite waitress, Mel, set a cup of coffee in front of her, unasked. A friendly type, but not in-your-face friendly, Shaw liked her because she kept the coffee cup full and didn’t bat an eye at her appetite. She was good to the alpha customers but didn’t take any crap from them.

“Steak and eggs, stack on the side.”

She didn’t want to think too much about the deal the alpha offered, in case it was bullshit, but she couldn’t help it.

Her own place, nobody snoring or jerking off in the bed next to hers. Bar funds or membership, whatever she wanted. No take on her income. When she’d asked John what the catch was, he’d said — the work is dangerous. No shit. Why else would he want a fighter who was good with guns? Whatever this lair (if it really existed) was mixed up in had to be illegal. But tough as he was, the alpha didn’t smell like corruption; his scent was disciplined, military. She was good at reading gangster. He wasn’t the first to make an offer based on her fighting skills.

The omega was the key. She’d know if the deal was legit or not, if and when she met this Harold person, got a sniff of him.

She caught sight of her gym buddy through the window and stared at the small figure beside him. She didn’t know what she’d expected but it wasn’t him. An elegant, prim-looking little omega. Shaw would class him above John. The alpha cleaned up pretty good in a suit but she knew him raw; a working class grunt at the core, even if his training was elite. The meg was way above her own pay grade. His type didn’t work in milk bars.

He had a careful limping gait. Why no cane, she wondered. Heads turned when they entered the coffee shop and as he passed, making his way toward her booth. The alphas turned away as John’s scent warded them off. Beta eyes followed the meg, if more surreptitiously than before. Shaw was looking her fill, and the omega was looking back at her.

He looked serious, smart; he wasn’t really pretty but looked very fine. His scent didn’t hit her; there was none of the fragrance enhancer the megs she knew wore to put an exclamation point to their power. But he smelled good, really good, and she felt her body relaxing, the crick in her neck giving way like a knot unwinding. She realized her breathing had deepened; her body knew what was good for it.

Mel appeared table side. Shaw wasn’t surprised to see that her smile for this meg was warm enough to melt butter. If nothing else came of this meeting, her stock in the waitress's eyes had shot through the roof.

“A menu, sir? Would you like coffee?”

“I believe I will have a cup, thank you.” She delivered the menu to the omega’s hand.

“I’ll have one too,” the alpha said, gently nudging the waitress's attention. Mel blinked and blushed, tearing her eyes away from Harold.

"Of course," she said, straightening her posture a little self-consciously. "Right away."

“Ms Shaw.” The omega greeted her directly.

“Harold,” she said. “Nice to know you’re not a figment of John’s imagination.”

“I assure you,” he said, opening his menu. “I’m quite … real.”

There was no talk of arrangements or contracts, no business while they ate. She applied herself to her steak and eggs, her pancakes, keeping an eye on them, making up her mind. She’d have to be nuts to turn this down.

When the dishes were cleared, she said, “Where do I sign?”

 

***

Harold felt like his usual tight control of his life was slipping a little from his fingers. It wasn’t an altogether bad feeling, but he wasn’t on solid ground as the winter holiday approached. Christmas.

He’d communicated with his fellow board members at Universal Heritage, approving the gifts the company would give for the holiday, and taken care of similar seasonal tasks as needed for his cover identities. That was as much as he usually celebrated, apart from charitable donations. He liked the holiday, a traditional time to acknowledge the value of all people, regardless of breed. It seemed every culture had its way of showing reverence for lessers, especially betas in the darkest part of winter.

Harold wasn’t a strong believer in the beta savior, Jesus Christ, or his divinely impregnated beta mother … but he whole-heartedly wished for all breeds and creatures of the earth to be respected.

Lessers. Andrea was very excited, planning to host a party in her home for what would be the first full assembly of the lair; Harold, John, Andrea, Fusco and Shaw. A modest lair, by any objective standard, but Harold, used to a solitary existence, felt a like a piece of taffy, his center being drawn outward into the warm fingers of his lair.

Their new alpha was proving hard to contain. There were … issues. She was everything he’d hoped for in terms of helping John deal with the dangers of the numbers, but there was a not-so-subtle rivalry between the two alphas to take on dangerous tasks. An unfortunate development that he didn’t know how to cope with.

Just as serious was her unexpected appearance in the library, uninvited, slipping past Harold’s safeguards. It happened while he was absorbed at his computer and John was out picking up Indian food for their dinner.

She spoke into the silence. “John’s not the only one with tracking skills, Harold.”

He’d literally jumped in his seat at the sound of her voice. She was no more than a few feet away, looking around the room with a casual air of speculation.

“Or breaking and entering skills, apparently,” he said, hand to his chest, waiting for his heartbeat to normalize.

“What’s happening?” John’s voice, stern through the terminal’s speaker. He’d been close enough to feel the jolt of Harold’s alarm.

“Ms Shaw is here. I’m not in danger, just … startled.” He took a careful calming breath. “You’re quite adept at masking your scent.” He hadn’t gotten so much as a whiff of her.

“I know how to control myself.” Her voice was even. Her demeanor difficult to read.

Harold watched her wander toward the wall of numbers.

“Why are you here, Ms Shaw?” He was determined to deal with this without panic.

She turned to look at him. “I know John’s top dog, but you should know … I’m just as trustworthy. And I have my talents.”

It occurred to him when she turned toward him, presenting herself to his gaze, that this was Sameen Shaw preening, showing off for him.

“Of course you do. And I do trust you.”

Harold sensed the heat of John’s anger as he came up the stairs. Shaw felt it too; Harold saw her square off toward the head of the staircase and then she dropped to one knee.

“John,” he said, “please. I don’t want any fighting here.”

His alpha stopped directly in front of her, staring down at her bowed head. She dropped lower, on both knees, bending forward until her forehead touched the floor at his feet. Harold consciously pushed his aura, surrounding the alphas in what he hoped was calming energy; but anxiety prickled up his back. John reined in and Shaw straightened up though she stayed on her knees.

“You know I respect him,” she said.

“Of course I know that — you’re still alive, aren’t you.”

Harold could smell the delicious aromas of the Indian food now, buttery curry, cumin and coriander. John left the bag on the table in front of the couch and came to his kneeling mat. He lowered himself. Harold felt shy of offering the intimate opening of his thighs in front of another person (lair, he told himself) but he sensed it was important to John, so he suffered the heat of his own blushes, turning to allow his alpha to press his face to the tops of his thighs. He shivered from the touch of a cold nose against his crotch, but John soon warmed as Harold stroked his hair.

“So,” Shaw said. “What’s for dinner?” John sat back and gazed up at Harold, sharing a look of disbelief. There was an underlying indulgence in the expression.

Her nonchalance and John’s tolerance surprised a laugh of relief from Harold. There wasn’t a trace of fear or resentment in her for being forced to bow. She'd made the point she wanted to make, accepted the consequences with equanimity … and now she was hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little nod to M_E_Lover! :) And I feel the end of this story is in sight.


	28. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be posted by Christmas but I couldn't get it into shape in time! Apologies for prolonging the holiday season. Hope to be wrapping this story up soon.

The alpha’s icy eyes could still make Fusco shiver. The new one, Shaw, was just as bad. He’d seen her drop guys twice her size like it was nothing. He was safe from the two of them as long as he stayed in line. Staying in line wasn’t that hard with Harold for an anchor and Carter riding herd. It wasn’t like the old days when things got blurred between loyalty to friends and breaking the rules.

A couple scary alphas didn’t change the fact that this crazy lair was the best thing that ever happened to him. He felt the glory; his health, his energy … his wallet. More money in his pocket than when he was on the take because he didn’t have to pony up to Hansen. Other stuff had gotten good for him too, things he never expected, like his ex softening up. His support payments were regular now, with a little extra, which made her happy. The last time they met, she’d given him a look that said — something’s changed about you. And when he pushed to talk about visiting rights, she didn’t say no. He desperately wanted to see more of his son.

He was feeling grateful when he showed up for Christmas dinner. Showered, scrubbed and starched; his Florsheims polished. Wearing his best suit straight from the cleaners. This was a big deal and he didn’t want to blow it. Pricey neighborhood, swanky apartment. Part of his head said, you don’t belong here, but the rest was feeling the glow.

The omega headed the table, as it should be. Class act all the way, done up in velvet. Sure, Mr Wonderful was sitting next to him and Andrea, the lawyer babe, his top tier was on the other side. So what. There was no bad seat at the table. Fusco was breathing the same air they were and when Harold looked at him and smiled … it tasted as good as the awesome food on his plate.

He might have gone a little overboard on the mashed potatoes, but what the hell, Shaw’s plate was piled even higher than his. Andrea could cook. She looked good too. Like a gingerbread cookie you’d rush home to nibble on every night if she was yours. She was single but he didn’t let his mind go there, not seriously. He saw Shaw giving her more than a few hungry looks and thought, good luck with that. Andrea didn’t have eyes for anyone but Harold.

It was the time of year that omegas gave gifts to lessers. So exciting when he was a kid. Shiny trinkets and toys handed out by the omegas at school. Plastic crap, but he’d loved it; little cars and figures, and the gold beads you could hang around your neck. It sorta sucked when he figured out that betas did most of the shopping and giving, in the name of omegas. It was the thought, his mom had explained to him, the omega blessing that counted. He and his wife always bought all of Lee’s gifts that were given in her mother’s name. Betas made the world go round; everybody knew that, no different at Christmas.

It was a long time since Fusco felt any joy in the holiday but this year was different. He’d had enough cash to spring for new hockey gear for Lee. Even the precinct dorm seemed festive to him, colored lights in the commons room, cookie tins and chocolate from the Captain. The Commissioner, a ballbuster they were all happy not to see in person, sent a Christmas note of “appreciation” with the traditional holiday bonus in their paychecks. Everybody knew it was department policy, nothing to do with that asshole, but it was a welcome sight, all the same.

To be on the safe side Fusco had brought gifts to the dinner, a little bottle of hooch (good stuff, if not a lot of it) for each of his lair mates; not sure how this bunch operated. They were gifts to be given in Harold’s name — stuff Fusco could afford because of the omega’s generosity. He was glad when he saw that Andrea had done the same thing, boxes of her homemade cookies.

She did the honors of handing it all out. The beta cop was feeling no pain; even the nagging ache in his butt cheek was quiet. He’d been invited to sit beside Harold on the couch after dinner and was sunk in the generous cushions, basking. Shaw was on the other side of the omega but had plopped herself on the floor, leaning against Harold’s leg. She lifted the bottle of whiskey in salute.

“Good choice, Lionel.”

“That was so thoughtful of you,” Harold said, turning slightly to look at him, hand clutching his arm. Fusco felt his face go warm. The meg’s full on attention, so close, was more than he could take in. He felt drunk. It was almost a relief when Harold turned his gaze to Andrea.

“Would you be so kind,” he asked her, “to hand out my gifts.”

There was a pile in front of him by the time she was done, the boxes looked like they’d been wrapped by a pro.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“That’s what I told him.” Wonderboy’s two cents. The alpha’s long body was ranged in an armchair across from them. The bastard looked plenty smug but there was no menace in his eyes.

“Don’t tease him, John. Go on detective. Open your gifts, I hope you like them.” There was something about the way he said it, kinda shy. The meg had picked this stuff out for him, himself, Fusco felt it in his gut. Didn’t matter if it was shit in the boxes, believing that made him feel like a prince.

There was a new phone with all the bells and whistles. A pair of gloves, the kind people bought over counters in fancy stores, not off a spinning rack at the corner drugstore. A tie he would save for special occasions. Too fine to catch mustard dripping off a hotdog. It was the last gift that made his eyes water. The real thing. Not a string of gold plastic beads. His own chain and medallion, inscribed on one side, Lionel, and on the other Finch’s imprint. It felt alive in his hand.

Shaw had been ripping through paper at the same time he was, and suddenly was up on her knees, lifting her sweater to her ribs, unzipping her jeans. Fusco stared like everybody else did.

The zipper stopped short of showing her drawers.

“Put it on me, Harold,” the crazy woman said, holding up her own gold chain. Fusco heard a low, whispery growl that lifted the hair on the back of his neck. He shrank back in the couch cushions. The alphas were locking eyes and he wanted to hide … until Shaw dipped her head.

“It’s all right, John.” Harold’s voice calmed the air and Fusco’s shoulders dropped from around his neck. It was still hard to take a deep breath.

Harold leaned forward to take the ends of the chain from Shaw. Moments hung suspended as the omega’s elegant fingers did the work of fastening the circlet at the small of her back. The medallion itself hung under her belly button.

“You can all put your eyes back in your heads,” she announced, zipping up, and pulling the sweater back down. She patted her belly and got up from her place beside the meg, grabbing up her bottle of whiskey from the table. The world righted itself when the top dog took her place and planted himself face first in the omega’s lap. Harold stroked his hair and ripples of peace flowed through Fusco. Funny, he thought, how an alpha tiger turned into a lap cat like magic. The big guy wasn’t scary any more though the cop knew that could turn on a dime. For now, things were smooth as silk in the room. Shaw’s big brown eyes met his and she winked. He had to grin.

Quietly, he put his own chain over his head and dropped the medallion down into his shirt — no striptease needed. The precious metal disc nested against his chest and felt wonderful.


	29. Jordan Hester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Must stop working on this and get it posted! I've been hammering at it too long. Even the cat is sick of seeing me work on it, trying to get a paw in to help.
> 
> It's a slightly different take on Harold being drugged by Jordan Hester -- which I've explored a number of times in other stories.

John didn’t like it. One number, two people, and no way to know which was the real Jordan Hester. He’d pushed to expand the lair to protect Harold. It was supposed to keep him free from fieldwork but it wasn’t enough this time. Andrea was wrapped up in court. Fusco was knee-deep in a homicide investigation and putting every extra second he could find into working the identity theft angle of their case. Shaw would have been ideal but John needed her to stay on Carter and the FBI. Carter didn’t want anything to do with him or Harold since Szymanski got shot, but she didn’t know Shaw. Their new alpha was tracking her and the FBI agent who’d drafted her into his taskforce. His name was Donnelly and he was hellbent on finding the man in the suit.

That was how Harold ended up tailing a drug dealer who dosed him with E and god knew what else. Fusco had reached him in time but John died a thousand deaths from the moment he lost touch with his omega until Fusco gave him the all clear. “I got him,” he told John. “No way did he wanna to be got. Little guy thought it was dinner she was cooking in the microwave.” John could hear Harold’s laughter in the background, soft and delighted, then Fusco, “Hey, hey … not those buttons.” The siren sounded and cut off. “Gotta go, big guy, see you at Andrea’s place.” 

John was aching to see his omega but sat in his car outside the apartment. He needed to calm himself. Get his head straight before barging in. He took out his phone.

Surveillance cameras. They were in all of the lair’s safe houses. Since Christmas, John discovered, Harold almost always kept windows open on his computer to watch his betas from the library.

“Andrea tv?” he teased him one day and Harold had gotten a little defensive.

“I like to know she’s safe.” John knew it was more than that. The omega who’d avoided forming a lair his whole life, now loved his lair to a depth he was shy of revealing.

“Fusco,” John said. “You think he’s not safe in the barracks?”

“It doesn’t hurt to be sure,” Harold had answered with a telltale blush. Shaw had planted cams for him in the cop’s dorm. The only one he couldn’t surveil was Shaw herself. She found every camera John planted.

Now John held his phone close, logged into Harold’s surveillance, watching, absorbing the sight of Harold and their betas.

All three of them were on the couch, Harold in his pajamas. The image soothed him. Andrea’s computer was open on her lap. There was a pile of paperwork on the coffee table in front of her; prep for the next day’s court session, probably. Usually she would be at the long table but tonight she must want to stay close to Harold. He was between her and Fusco, leaning against Fusco’s belly. The oversized Audubon book of birds was open across his lap, with the cop holding one edge.

The scene was golden. The only darkness was his own. If Fusco hadn’t gotten to Harold in time, the explosion, the toxic fumes, either one could have killed him. There should be punishment. He craved it in a way, to suffer for his failure to keep Harold safe; to blot out the pain of what could have been. 

He watched Harold stroke the page of the book. The sensuous motion made John's hard dick, harder, in spite of his effort to subdue his arousal. Harold’s fingers wandered to Fusco’s hand, caressing him like a child might toy with its parent’s hand.

It was time to go in. He wanted those fingers wandering over him.

The confusion of the drugs in Harold’s aura hit him the second he entered the apartment. He’d thought the omega would feel his presence but Harold was still focused on his book. John waited one beat, two beats … to be scented. The omega at last seemed to register him in the air and look up. Andrea’s eyes were on him too. Fusco looked up reluctantly, like he was afraid of what John might say or do.

“Nathan.” Harold spoke, gazing at him. “You’re here.”

That name. He remembered the photo that had fallen from a book, a tall blond alpha. This would be his punishment, he realized. Harold admiring him, eyes full of desire, believing he was someone else. He saw the betas exchange a look.

“I’m here,” John answered, descending the stairs into the room. 

“Guess that’s my cue, guys.” Fusco dislodged himself from Harold’s side. “I’ve got a boatload of paperwork waitin’ for me.” To John, he said, “He’ll come out of it.” John didn’t answer as he helped his omega up from the couch.

Harold was unsteady in John’s hold. He stumbled when he tried to move on his own, as if he didn’t understand why his leg didn’t work. John wanted to sweep him up and carry him, but Harold resisted.

John got him to their room, seated on the bed, and knelt in front of him.

Harold swayed a little, reaching toward him and then pulling back, peering at him as if trying to be sure who he was. His hand rested on John’s shoulder. “You’re … full,” he said, frowning.

“I’m fine.” As much as he wanted relief and had every right to it, this felt wrong.

“My neck?” Harold said, reaching up to feel it, trying to turn his head. This was worse. His omega didn’t seem to know his own body. The words John remembered from the photograph … in the beginning … it must have been a time when his body was uninjured. The big blue eyes focused on him and John tasted sadness. The omega drew in a deep breath, studying his face. John felt unaccountably ashamed of being the wrong man.

“Nathan?”

“Harold, you were drugged, you’re confused. I’m … John.”

There was no reply but the omega closed his eyes.

John’s own confused thoughts gave way to need. He couldn’t be this close another second without lowering his head into Harold’s lap, to be cradled by his thighs and buried in his scent. He nudged at the soft cock with his nose and kissed it through the clothes. Pajamas, panties, he felt the edge of a pad.

A hand touched the back of his head and began to stroke his hair. 

“I feel strange, John. I think I would like to lie down.” He sounded wistful … but he’d called him by name and being known was everything.

 

***

 

Harold’s thoughts were hard to hang onto, to put in order. He felt like he was trying to navigate strange sands scattered with beautiful shells. Here or there he’d pick one up and get lost in it. Then it would slide from his grasp and he’d find another one. Nathan, was he here? He couldn’t be. He saw a pretty face in his mind, a charming beta female. Very attractive and delightful to talk to. He liked her very much. But … what had happened?

John is here, he thought, and became aware of his alpha leaning into the juncture of his thighs, familiar and reassuring. Harold clung to him mentally. His alpha. His beautiful alpha. He could smell his scent now, the alpha’s need so vivid. Harold’s mouth watered in anticipation of milk but he couldn’t think how to get what he wanted. If I could just lie down, he thought.

“I feel strange, John. I think I would like to lie down.” The alpha sat up, leaving Harold’s lap empty and too cool from losing his warmth, though it was a joy to see his face again. “Milk,” he said, hoping the alpha would bring about what he wanted.

He was curled in a nest of soft things; it helped ease the staticky sensation under his skin, like the prickle of fading numbness. He saw the man’s naked body. It’s John, he told himself, recognizing the scent of him that could never be forgotten. Up close, the smooth head of his alpha’s erection touched his lips and he licked the escaping milk. He gripped the shaft in his hand, guiding the head into his mouth. Closing his eyes he drifted into the world of sucking; his fingers urging the upward flow and then finding their way to the tender skin over the milk sacs.

With his alpha’s milk rich inside him and the strength of his aura like a fortress surrounding him, Harold stopped wandering and found his way home.


	30. Training In Social Graces

Harold owned a lot of property. John had seen multiple safe houses and suspected there were more; all of them luxurious by his standards. Andrea lived in one. Shaw lived in another.

“Not Fusco,” John had insisted. Harold wanted to give him a brownstone (worth a fortune) near the precinct.

“He’d have room for Lee to visit,” Harold said, “and there’s a small backyard area.” As if this sealed the deal.

“No. He’s better off at the barracks with some extra money in his pocket for the kid. How could he explain owning something like that?” Harold reluctantly agreed but John could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

More nights than not, he and Harold slept at the library, where the omega could be near his work. John didn’t care. He was content anywhere, as long as he was with Harold, but he wanted the place to be nicer for his omega. He drafted Shaw to help him work on the living spaces between numbers. It was worth putting up with her sniffing around their bedroom, literally and figuratively.

“So this is where the magic happens,” she’d said. She picked up a book from the nightstand. Then, shooting him a look as she deliberately crossed a line, she'd lifted the pillow to her nose; no doubt sure it was Harold's side of the bed because of the book. John would have growled if it was Harold's pillow, but it wasn't. He held back his smile until she got a big nose full of alpha, gagged and threw the thing at him. “That’s disgusting.”

"Harold likes it."

"I'm gonna pound you."

"You're welcome to try." He was taunting her but she shocked him in the next second when she leapt across the bed and sent him flying to the floor.

Despite this kind of distraction, she was helpful with the heavy lifting and construction — breaking through a wall to add a wardrobe space for Finch, improving the kitchen and bathroom. When that was done, she helped him create a workout space downstairs where they could spar and wrestle. The last project was the only one actually requested by Harold, who was tired of hearing them fight while he was trying to work. “Could the two of you please find somewhere else to growl and knock each other around. Preferably, out of my sight and hearing.”

On a bright morning in early spring, John was feeling good. Scrubbed down after a session with Shaw, thick with milk and the scent of his omega sweet in the air. He strutted a little entering the workroom, naked. It was disappointing that Harold didn’t look up from the computer screen.

“Good workout?” the omega asked.

“Yes,” John answered. “You seem pretty absorbed.”

“I think it’s time for you,” he said, still gazing steadily at his computer, “to attend some finishing classes.” Finishing classes … was he was some kind of neanderthal that needed training for polite society, too raw? John’s competitive instincts conjured up Nathan Ingram, Harold’s lover; someone who knew more than which fork to use at a formal dinner.

Thanks to the unfortunate incident with Jordan Hester and the drugs, John knew much more about his omega’s history and Nathan Ingram. When Harold had gotten all of the chemicals out of his system, John had confronted him.

“You mistook me for someone named Nathan. I think it’s time you tell me who he is.” And Harold did, shame-faced, apologetic. “It’s not that I wanted to hide something from you. It’s not … easy to talk about.”

Now John knew how the two had met at MIT, how they’d gone into business and ultimately, created the machine. He knew the story of how they’d formed a physical relationship. It was a relief to learn that Harold had never chosen Nathan as a mate, that he’d belonged to another omega. But it was obvious to him that the relationship ran deep, cemented by Nathan’s death.

If Harold wanted him trained, John would comply — he’d become smoother than Nathan Ingram could ever have dreamt of being.

“If you think so,” he said, tamping his aura. Harold looked up then, puzzled. His eyes widened at the sight of him, close and naked.

“For a number, John, not for me. Caroline Turing.” He turned his screen for John to see the woman’s image. “She operates an elite finishing service. John Anderson,” he said. “Harold Partridge’s lover is the one who has an appointment with Ms Turing tomorrow. You, my love, are perfect exactly the way you are.”

John stood transfixed by Harold’s warm gaze. He loosed his aura, preening with pleasure, his heavy cock lifting as his imagined rival was vanquished. He was Harold’s alpha, the one who could kneel by his chair and be welcome between his legs.

 

***

During John’s session with their number Harold listened intently, sitting at attention in front of his computer. Partridge had passed muster as a client, which was no surprise. The persona was well-established and could stand up to the scrutiny of vetting. He was also pretentious enough to want an alpha schooled in social graces. What did surprise him a little was that he’d gotten an appointment booked so swiftly. Most elite service professionals would make one wait, whether they had time available or not, for the sake of appearance. We were lucky, he thought, but it was a detail that would come back to haunt him.

He had no idea where the threat to her was coming from. Turing was a top tier beta in a small, distinguished lair with foreign service connections. Currently its core members were in Europe, leaving her somewhat vulnerable and alone in their upper East Side home. She had a membership in one of the city’s most exclusive tea houses for anchoring in their absence.

Harold detailed Shaw to monitor the residence. Andrea had submitted an application to the tea house so she could get inside and do some snooping. Fusco was sifting through police files for any hits on Turing or her lair. It was up to John to get a look at her business and try to dig up what he could on her clientele.

“Former military?” he heard her ask him.

“Careful, John,” he urged softly.

“Does it show?” The alacrity, the ease with which his alpha handled himself in the field never ceased to amaze him. John always seemed to find the right note to strike.

“You’re tightly controlled, stiff in your movements, but … we can fix that.”

John must be deliberately exaggerating his stance, his walk, the way he sat, because Harold could think of no one he knew with more natural grace.

Zoe (whom he’d forgiven for attempting to seduce his alpha) would be of great help once they got the names of Turing’s clients. Finishing, or polishing was favored by a certain type of omega, definitely wealthy, old money or wanting to appear that way. Harold associated the practice with collectors of expensive canes or those who carried jeweled prods. It also attracted alphas (with money) who wanted to enter an upper class lair. 

There was at least one client they knew of from early surveillance who’d taken an aggressive stance with the finisher. An attractive, strong-looking alpha who didn’t like being corrected by a beta even though he’d paid for the service.

 

***

Samantha Groves, who privately called herself, Root, was intrigued when John Anderson wandered into her trap. The rest of her clients were ringers. Anderson was the real card slipped into a blank deck.

Just in time — once again demonstrating that fortune favored those who played by their own rules. She was growing tired of the Upper East Side though she was quite entertained by the little brown-haired alpha with the big brown eyes and appetite to match, who was surveilling her. She would miss discovering her hiding places. If she hadn’t been waiting for someone to track her she might not have spotted her. But she was waiting, and watching.

Root had gone through life assured that there was no one smarter than she was. Like the queen in Snow White, she could glance in a mirror and feel assured that she reigned supreme over a world of fools. Until the day, in the midst of a plan, it was suddenly, and disturbingly, no longer true. The mirror spoke. It said there was someone fairer in the land. Someone a step ahead, someone who knew what she was doing and had the temerity to stop her.

Soon she would have that person in the palm of her hand. This alpha, with the pretty eyes, playing at needing to be polished, would be the key. She didn’t know exactly how it would happen, where or when, but the brilliant one behind this big lug would be in her grasp.


	31. The Abduction

It was kind of adorable, she thought, the lengths to which the alpha and his omega were willing to go to save her from the hitmen she’d hired. She'd gotten an unexpected assist from the FBI, upping the pressure on her rescuers; an exciting and unlooked for gift, proving once again that fate favors those who favor themselves. It would be nice, but wasn’t necessary, for the feds to catch the big alpha and put him out of the picture altogether. It wouldn’t matter in the short run, but might make things simpler later on when it would be necessary for the omega to accept her in his place — if things developed according to plan.

“Thank you, John,” she said, more or less sincerely, as she left him to his fate. HR (hired by her) and the FBI (obsessed for reasons of their own) closing in on him. He’d played his part well but it was over. She was eager to move on.

The omega had taken on mythic proportions in her mind and the exquisite game to draw him out had done nothing but strengthen her assessment of his brilliance. His commandeering of the cell towers — that was particularly impressive. It thrilled her to know she was about to meet him as she stepped out into the early morning light. She almost laughed out loud with delight when she saw her quarry, so clearly out of his element at the wheel of a getaway car; a clever-looking, bespectacled mouse in a three-piece suit.

She swung deftly into the seat beside him. She could taste the suppressant in his aura (she was an expert in that area) but it couldn’t completely disguise his magical scent. Despite her own suppressed state, she felt a thrill of anticipation, a shadow of pleasure to come.

“So nice to finally meet you, Harold. You can call me Root." She smiled, dropping the damsel-in-distress persona of Caroline Turing.

There was a sweet look of confusion on his face. She used that moment to plunge a ready hypodermic needle into his thigh. “We're going to have so much fun … when you wake up,” she said, watching the drug overtake him — his eyes widened in alarm, slowly closing uncontrollably.

It would be a shame to leave his beautiful clothes behind but that is exactly what she intended when they reached the midtown parking garage where her van was stashed. She didn’t want to take a chance that the resourceful alpha might have trackers planted on his omega, or the vehicle. She would if he was hers — which, she reminded herself, he would be. Even the glasses had to go. She took a peek through them to see how badly he needed them. Badly, unfortunately.

“Sorry, Harry,” she said as she tossed them.

She had clothing ready, one size fits all, by necessity, since she had no idea what her Harold’s dimensions would be. The silk jumpsuit was voluminous but lovely on his slight body, chic, she thought. She couldn’t afford the time to appreciate his nudity, or study his scars, but she saw everything and was affected by it nonetheless as she handled him. Curiosity, intimations of … lust. Especially when she fit the gartered napkin belt around his waist and attached the long hospital-style pad between his legs; adjusting the fit against his soft skin.

Physically, Root was alpha, but she felt inside that she belonged to the superior breed of omega. She was surprised that Harold was using suppressants. If she were omega, she’d glory in it, but she assumed he did it for reasons similar to her own — for the power of disguise. He must have discovered, as she had, that betas with their neutral auras and bland scents had a surprising amount of freedom, if little power.

Root belonged to no lair, favoring tea houses for her omega time when she was living as a beta, financial arrangements always discreet, through one of her various fake omegan anchors. Her sexual preference was fluid and the suppressants made sex and milking low priorities. On occasion she would drop her dosage to visit a good milk bar; for her that was sufficient. Now, she thought, things might be different. She’d found someone worthy of serving, someone who would recognize her worth.

Traveling west by train would be romantic. Out west is where she was convinced his creation lived. Somehow, on her journey to meet God, she’d convince Harold to see things her way.

 

***

 

“You put the hit out on yourself," he uttered, in disbelief. He'd awakened inside a bad dream.

There was a collar at his throat, he could feel it even though it didn't constrict him. His wrists were cuffed, his ankles, but all of the restraints were padded with what felt like soft fleece. The comfort of his captivity didn't lessen his fear. It whispered sexual bondage in his mind and he flared uselessly, weakly in alarm. Inside he cried for his mate's protection but knew his alpha was too far away to hear him.

“I did,” she said, as if it were not insane. Smiling, proud of her cleverness. Preening. Not a beta victim — a strange, strange alpha, the aura confused but …

This was Root, this pretty young woman was the hacker assassin who’d tried to frame an innocent man for murder; a murder she’d orchestrated. This was the person whose computer skills had pushed him to the limit; he’d had to destroy his equipment and start over from scratch to keep her out. She’d never penetrated his firewalls again but he realized that she’d found another way to get to him. He could barely get past the idea that she’d risked her life to kidnap him … and now he was trapped with her.

They were on a train going god only knew where. Even with his blurred vision, he could see the hazy sunlit world flying past in the frame of the window. He was in a bottom berth of a private sleeping car; the woman was seated on its edge. He could see, past her, the fuzzy shape of a folded wheelchair.

“I knew you boys wouldn’t let me down,” she said, leaning toward him. “The man in the suit … and you, Harold. The man who created God. Only an all-seeing eye could have gathered the intelligence that stopped me.”

Perhaps her closeness was a concession to his missing glasses, but Harold found her nearness and her scent overwhelming. Alpha. John could not have mistaken it. She must have been using powerful hormone inhibitors.

He didn’t confirm or deny what she said.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Harry.”

“Where are we going?”

“West. You’re going to introduce me to your machine.” Her eyes seemed to sparkle when she said this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I removed the total chapter count. I planned for this to be the next to last one, but the more I try to wrap up this story, the more it wiggles a little out of control. I may be able to bring it all to a conclusion in the next one but I'm not sure.


	32. Dangerous Driving And Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned there is Non-Consensual touching in this chapter.

Damn alphas. Fusco’s heart was racing as fast as the car and his fingers were clamped on the dashboard. In all his years on the force he’d never …

“Slow down, Shaw.” The big alpha spoke up from the backseat.

The lunatic took her eyes off the road to turn and glare at him.

Fusco was thinking that maybe the big dog wasn’t as crazy as she was, maybe he understood that chasing down a couple of scumbag HR cops wasn’t worth killing or dying for. The big one could control her — but it turned out the bastard just wanted a few car lengths distance before he set off a trunk full of C4, blasting the car ahead of them into the sky.

Certifiable, both of them, but they were his alphas. The crazy shit they did, at least it wasn’t to line their pockets with drug money. Fusco believed they wanted to do good, even if how they did it was sometimes scary as hell.

 

***

 

Nobody had questioned Shaw’s phony FBI credentials (Harold was the best at stuff like that.) But he’d advised her to keep to the task force periphery. “These kinds of operations run on caffeine. Show up with cardboard trays of coffee, you’ll find they take you for granted,” he told her.

There was a mix of out of state and local agents. Each group assumed she was based with the other. Together she and Fusco, with some help from Carter (who still didn’t know who she was) were able to keep tabs on John and Turing, use the FBI’s surveillance to guide them through the siege.

All hell broke loose when surveillance picked up HR’s load of explosives. Agents were scrambling and in the melee she and Fusco took off, descending with firepower and wheels to get John out of the hotel basement. The HR betas who had him pinned underground decided to cut and run when they found themselves outgunned. Their attempt to flee was like a thrown stick to an excited Retriever. Shaw had to chase.

“Buckle up, boys,” she told her lair-mates.

The car rocked and swerved with the force of her handling and went airborne on the ramp to the West Side Highway. She grinned seeing Fusco’s hands clutch the dash as her pedal foot hit the floor. It felt so good to exert her power, to wield the car like a part of her body, that her milk glands were cranking and her dick was straining to come out and play. She was gaining on her prey, almost on top of them when John told her to slow down.

“What the fuck?” She risked a whip of her head to give him the face.

“Slow down,” he repeated, holding up a detonator. “Their trunk’s loaded with C4.”

She took her foot off the gas. Should have known he wouldn’t spoil her fun for no reason. She watched the distance open up, calculating car lengths. “Do it,” she breathed. God, it was good when he triggered the blast and the flames erupted in front of them, the target flying end over end in the air.

He’d cheated her out ramming them, but given her something better. She bowed to him in her mind for being canny enough to get his hands on that detonator. Their beta looked green around the gills when she spared him another glance.

“Lionel, you’re a cop, for god’s sake,” she said. “Don’t tell me you never chased down a suspect.”

“Yeah, with those little things we call sirens and lights. And guess what, we don’t blow them up on the highway if we don’t catch ’em.”

“Whatever. I’ll get you back to your precinct safe and sound.”

She was heading off the highway, eager to unload both of them, already charting the shortest route in her head to her favorite milk bar. The air in the car was heavy with alpha pheromones. John’s scent was familiar to her now. She wouldn’t have said she liked it, but he smelled like lair. He must be more than ready to find Harold, she thought, must be as full as she was. It dawned on her then that she hadn’t heard their omega’s voice in her ear for a long time.

“What’s up with the professor?” Fusco said, like he was thinking the same thing. As if on cue they heard John’s phone.

 

***

 

Root gazed at her unconscious captive. How considerate everyone had been, providing a ramp and clearing the aisles for her to board the train with her ailing, wheelchair-bound omega. Her own natural scent was beginning to tell, and hints of Harold’s were detectable; strangers assumed she was his alpha. Not his mate, there was no scent of a bond between them, but part of his lair. To heighten the charade, while they were still alone in the van, she had (with a murmur of apology) touched him intimately to obtain moisture from his body to perfume herself, dabbing it at her throat and wrists.

She’d reserved an access enabled sleeping compartment. An oxygen mask and a woolen blanket tucked securely around him were effective in garnering sympathy in addition to the respect an omega was due.

“If you need any assistance,” the beta porter told her, “please ring for service.”

“Thank you so much.” She’d tipped generously before closing the door.

She’d transferred Harold gently from the wheelchair to the berth, handling him carefully. The cuffs were a necessity but she didn’t intend them to be uncomfortable. There was enough play in the chain between his wrists for him to move his arms, between his ankles to shift his legs. The ankle chain was attached to bed frame. The softly padded collar was equipped with a shock wire … but she sincerely hoped it would never be necessary to use it.

She knew she shouldn’t but she opened the velcro tabs of his thin silk garment one last time, baring his chest. She leaned in close to sniff the skin between his small breasts, to touch him with the tip of her nose. That was all she allowed herself though she rested a hand on his thigh as she contacted his (soon to be former) alpha.

“Hello John. This is … the woman you believed was Caroline Turing. You know me better as Root. Harold is with me. I’d like to thank you for all you did to bring us together.”

She breathed into the silence, savoring the pleasure of letting him know who she was and how she’d bested him. She was the superior alpha.

“Root,” he echoed her name, and she could practically taste the comprehension of defeat overtaking him.

“I won’t hurt him,” she said. “Unless you or your lair interfere -- I know who they are, John: Andrea, Shaw, your dirty cop. I can make trouble for them anytime I choose. Harold is mine now. In your heart you know you’re not worthy of him. The sooner you accept it, the better for you. For him. I don’t want to hurt him, but he’s worth just as much to me maimed, as whole. I’ll serve him better than you could dream of.”

She cut the connection and dropped the phone into a glass of water. She smiled at Harold, still dreaming whatever dreams had come with her choice of drug. Soon he’d be awake … and their adventure would truly begin.

 

***

“What’s going on,” Shaw demanded. She’d pulled the car over to confront him. The preternatural calm coming off John was eerie, tinged at the edges. It said to her that he was controlling a shit-storm of turmoil. He looked up at them and her first thought was … Harold is dead. What else could do this to him?

“Turing,” he said. “She isn’t who we thought she was. The hit … was a con job. She’s an alpha hacker who calls herself Root. All of it ... was to get her hands on Harold. And I gave him to her.”

Shaw’s heart thudded in her chest, meeting her brother alpha’s eyes.

Lionel’s color was back with a vengeance, his cheeks red, his features screwed up.

“We’ve got to find them," John said. "And she can’t see us coming … or she’ll hurt him.”

Shaw was shocked to think she’d followed her, watched her, and never suspected her. It made her want to hurt her, bad. She’d taken their omega, the heart of them, and they had to get him back. “Who’s gonna tell Andrea?”

“Oh, jeez,” Fusco groaned. “This’ll kill her.” Shaw thought so too, but they were wrong. Andrea proved to be stronger than any of them when they needed her to be.

They gathered at her apartment. Being in a place where their anchor had spent a lot of time, where they could still scent him, kept the lair calm. Shaw was achy, her groin full, but she couldn’t think about milking. She’d lived with worse. She thought the same was true of John, the least of his worries.

Andrea had brewed a pot of Harold’s tea and that scent too, was soothing in the air.

“We’re lair, John,” Andrea said, presiding over them. Shaw felt proud of her, their top tier beta, taking the lead at the head of the table. “Harold keeps secrets from us, but I don’t think he does from you.” She gave him a significant look.

Shaw agreed, also looking to John to see the effect; adding a quiet nod to what Andrea had said. Fusco was looking from one to the other around the table.

“There’s a way he gets information,” Andrea continued. “I’ve never pried, never asked questions about things I knew he wanted kept private, but now we need to know. Is there a way, any way, that you can use his resources. If there is, John, you have to use it now to help us find him.”


	33. Harold Considers His Choices

Carter was worried at a low level that she could almost ignore, but not quite. The FBI had lost John and the woman he was protecting. She assumed they got out safely but was waiting to hear it confirmed by Fusco. Donnelly’s hands were full with the HR bust and he’d dispatched her back to the precinct. She expected to see her partner turn up. He was her remaining link to John and Harold.

Harold must have gotten the alpha and the woman out, pulled one of his miracles, she thought. She felt sure that he was behind the cell towers going down at a critical moment in the manhunt. Fusco would know, but he was hours late and not taking her calls.

Even though she couldn’t bring herself to work with John and Harold now, the road they traveled being too compromised for her, Carter found that once her first hot anger over what had happened to Szymanski passed, she’d forgiven John in her heart. The alpha and his omega were good men. She believed that. Only for the life of a baby would John have betrayed her trust.

She covered for Fusco all morning. By afternoon the feeling that something was wrong had grown and when he did show up, the look on his face did nothing to reassure her.

“Carter …” he began, but she interrupted.

“Count on you to disappear all morning, and then show up in time for lunch,” she said, gathering up her things, not wanting to talk at the precinct. Her fear; John hadn’t made it out of that basement in one piece. Damn crazy alpha, thought he was invulnerable. Fusco followed her lead, saying no more. It wasn’t until they were blocks from the station that she turned to him and he met her eyes.

“We need your help, Carter. Somebody’s taken Finch. The hacker, the one who tried to frame that guy, Powell, a couple months back — for shooting the Congressman. She’s got Harold.”

Convinced that Fusco was going to deliver bad news about John, she couldn’t take in what he was saying right away. She remembered the case with the hacker. Never apprehended. The weird name, Root.

“John got out?”

“We got him out, but she’d already taken Harold.”

“We?” she questioned, trying to catch up with the picture Fusco was painting.

“There’s another alpha you don’t know. Listen, the thing is, that woman,” he said, glancing around them. “The one they were helping, Turing.” He whispered the name. “She’s the hacker. The whole deal was a fake. Somehow she figured out what they do. She used herself as bait. To get Harold.”

Of all the things that had floated through her mind that morning, she’d never considered that something might have happened to Harold. He was always in the background, removed from danger — the mastermind that guided John.

The craziness of it was hard to fathom. Harold Finch was smarter, more resourceful, than maybe anyone she’d ever known. If someone had risked their life to find him … Carter’s instincts told her the motive wasn’t murder. The vulnerable one right now, in her mind, was John. Losing Harold would be worse than a physical injury for that troubled alpha. Fusco was in bad shape and John must be losing his mind.

“What do you need me to do?” He was her partner and John … if not exactly a friend, was someone she owed a debt. For saving her life, for nearly getting him killed. John without Harold was … unthinkable.

 

***

 

The links of chain between his wrists clinked against the stainless steel bowl of the toilet when Harold reached between his legs. With a huff of annoyance he quickly caught the slack in one hand before carefully drying himself with the other. It was awkward, but he managed. The one-piece garment she’d dressed him in was a type familiar to him, though he owned none himself — tabbed along the entire crotch from belly to back to provide access without disrobing.

So far, Root had honored his privacy in the sleeping car’s tiny bathroom. Obviously, while he was unconscious she had seen him completely naked. Harold didn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought of her undressing and dressing him. Since he’d been awake and aware, she’d been more or less respectful, though her interest in his body was increasing with each passing hour. The effects of her suppressants, like his, were waning without fresh doses.

“You haven’t fallen in, have you, Harry?” she said, from what sounded like right outside the door.

“No … I have not.”

“Do you need help with the fresh napkin? If you turn your back to me and hold the silk up to your hips, I can fix it for you without compromising your modesty.”

“I’ve taken care of it.”

“Clever of you.”

Harold’s fear had lessened, at least his fear for his own safety. What did frighten him was Root’s threat to harm his lair if he didn’t cooperate. There was another layer of fear. Beneath the most obvious and immediate danger. Less visceral, but just as real to him. Root’s incredible gifts, coupled with her lack of compassion, her contempt for humanity, posed a longterm threat that could not be contained by escaping from her.

“People must seem like ants to you,” she’d said to him and what Harold heard was that they seemed that way to her, insignificant, inconvenient.

It was incredible that she had deduced so much about the existence of the machine, so close to the truth. What she’d figured out about him, about John had the power to instill panic, if he allowed himself to dwell on it. He couldn’t afford to think about the implications. His attention had to focus on the task at hand and on any advantage he could find.

Never in his life had he wielded the power of his breed over lessers. He had never tried to excite or control, to seduce or manipulate. The opposite. Now, he thought, it might be necessary, given her interest in him and in his body, to explore these possibilities. There was no room for scruples, for the careful restraint he’d spent a lifetime cultivating.

But I am no Mata Hari, he thought. I can’t fool her, he despaired in the next moment. Root was too smart to be taken in by a sham seduction. She read people like books, played them like games.

It has to be … real, an inner voice said. He had to find in himself the compassion to discern beauty, whatever there was in her that he could embrace. If I give her this, he thought, she cannot steal from me.

Forgive me, John, he said to himself. I have to do what I think is necessary to keep the lair safe. To rein in her strength. It was the essence of omega to control the force of alpha.

 

***

“For a genius, you’re not much of a conversationalist, are you Harry?”

She re-attached the ankle cuff to the frame of the berth, though she was beginning to believe it wasn’t necessary. Her captive had become calm over the course of the day; not even his eyes had strayed to the door. He’d allowed her to feed him, to touch him in non-sexual ways without comment. “I’ve waited my whole life for this,” she said, watching him stretch out slowly, easing himself back onto the mattress. She had, at least, learned about his injuries. The terrorist bombing of the New York Ferry.

“To abduct me? That seems … unlikely.”

She smiled. His comment almost rose to the level of friendly irony.

The scent of him was truly remarkable. Root inhaled deeply. Her milk was heavy. Her cock full inside her, the firm head of it pressing outward without fully emerging. His aura seemed to caress her, subtly. It was the response she'd longed to feel as the drugs wore off.

“To find someone … at my level, or beyond.” She sat on the edge of his bed and lightly rested her hand on his ankle, above the cuff. How good it would feel, she thought, to slide her hand up his leg. She could sense the warmth of his crotch, the tender place that could receive her. She let her eyes roam over him though she resisted touching any higher. “What you've created. Your machine, Harry. I will find it. You should help me.”

“That, I’m afraid, is quite impossible. I don’t know where it is. No one does.”

It tasted like the truth but Root found it difficult to believe. The machine had to have a massive physical presence, an acre of servers. She studied his face.

“Someone does. The three likely locations are … “

“I know what they are,” he said. “And you’re right. I know where … it was. Three months ago you would, indeed, have found the servers at one of those three locations.”

“And now?”

“You’d find nothing. An immense empty building.” She felt a flutter of panic.

“Where is it?” Things had been moving smoothly, more smoothly than she could have hoped. This was … unexpected. Impossible.

His expression, which for most of the hours he’d been awake was inscrutable, now seemed almost sympathetic. Root felt something rare, a little afraid and slightly awed. Somehow this omega was again, a mysterious step ahead of her.

“Three months ago,” he said. “I set the machine free. It … moved itself.”

Root became aware that her jaw had dropped and she closed her mouth.

At that moment the door of the compartment burst open. Root had barely microseconds to register the sight of a woman brandishing a badge and a taser. She heard, “NYPD,” as the barbs of the taser bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't stand for Harold to be harmed or Root to be killed!


	34. "Don't do anything stupid, John."

Andrea had taken the seat at the head of the table, seeing the need of her lair, but she wasn’t as steady as she sounded. It was the voice she summoned to address a jury; John was the judge. Confidence born of necessity. She laid her case before him as well as she could; asking him to violate the boundaries Harold had set for them. When John agreed, her relief was intense.

“I’ll try,” he said. “I’m not sure I can, but I’ll try.” He was already rising from the table.

“I’ll go with you,” Shaw said.

“No.” He shook his head. “I have to do this alone. Wait here together, all of you.”

It was hard when the alpha left them. Like waiting for a verdict, a verdict whose weight was heavier and more personal than she’d faced before. They couldn’t lose Harold. She had no idea how her anchor got information about people in danger, no concept of what John must do.

Shaw was restless. She paced; tossing a knife (that was closed, Andrea was grateful to see) in the air and catching it, shadow stabbing — and tossing it again. Fusco watched her for a while, frowning. Then he wandered. He turned the television on, turned it off. 

“Okay if I check out your fridge?” he asked her.

“Go ahead,” she told him, and smiled a little, to encourage him.

“Hey, Miss Congeniality … want a sandwich” he called to the alpha. She paused in her pacing, looked at him blankly, then she shrugged and said, “Sure. Heavy on the … ”

“Mustard, I know,” he finished the sentence for her. He looked from Shaw to Andrea. “How about you?” She saw the vulnerability in him, the anxiety under the casual talk.

“Nothing for me,” she said, wishing she could give comfort the way Harold did. “You guys go ahead.”

She had a legal pad on the table in front of her, to make notes — a list of possible courses of action if John had no success. The beginning and end of her list was a name. Carter. She wrote it boldly, drew a box around it. Fusco had already tried to get security footage from the garage where Harold’s car was found, and his clothes. Root had been careful, staying out the camera’s range. It unnerved Andrea to think of her omega stripped of his beautiful clothes by a hostile stranger. The wrongness of it made her feel weak. Don’t get distracted, she told herself, think.

It was Carter, not Fusco, who could act. Root had the ability to track the members of the lair. They needed the help of someone Root wouldn’t see coming. Andrea believed Carter would help, despite the distance she’d maintained since Szymanski was shot.

As she underlined Carter’s name, yet again, her printer started up in the quiet room and all three of them stared.

 

***

It was the same place John had waited the night he and Harold bonded. He stared up into the camera, ignoring the stream of passersby.

“I know you can see me, hear me. He’s in danger now because of you — and you’re gonna help me find him. Find a way to bend your rules.”

He waited. He watched the nearby pay phone, willing it to ring. He tried lifting the receiver but heard nothing. Time passed in agonizing increments and then slipped by too fast. Fifteen minutes gone. Harold had told him to wait that night and return if there was nothing after fifteen minutes. Sixteen passed, seventeen, eighteen minutes of silence that made him want to scream, No.

The phone in his pocket rang. It was Andrea.

“Come back, John. Come now.” Her tone was emphatic, serious but not upset and John knew something had happened. 

“On my way,” he told her, excited by hope. They were being cautious with their phones, unsure of Root’s ability to track, to tap their cells. John didn’t dare ask her for information but rushed back to the apartment.

What he found when he returned … a train schedule with a copy of a ticket, the time, the location of a sleeping car. New York City via Chicago, to Des Moines.

“She has him on a train, John. Fusco is making arrangements with Carter.”

“Carter,” he said dumbly. He was already on a plane in his mind.

“We can’t take the chance that Root will see us coming. Carter can intercept them in Chicago. When she gives the word she’s got them, you’ll fly to Des Moines to get Harold.”

He wanted to rage, his body nearly trembling with a suppressed flare. Andrea’s face was full of sympathy.

“I had to act, John, to send Fusco. Forgive me." She reached out and closed her hand on his forearm. It was not Harold’s touch, but it was lair. It centered him enough to take calming breaths. “Whatever you did, John … it worked. We know where he is and we will get him back.

He ached but softened his expression. She was right.

“Harold," she said, "once told me that it calms you to inventory your arsenal, to clean your weapons. I know you have quite a stash in that bedroom. When you’re done, we can pack things for Harold. Be ready for the call.”

It was strange to think of Harold and Andrea talking about him. It reinforced the sensation of lair, of his part in something more than himself. Even so, he thought, I’m alpha, not a child whose hands have to be kept busy. Nevertheless, he did bring out the guns and work on them, with Shaw. And it was quiet, focusing work. They could hear Andrea making the arrangements for the plane that would take him to Harold. When he was done, John washed up and joined their beta in the bedroom to gather things for his omega.

 

***

 

“You’re not lair,” Root said, looking at the woman. Taking her in, tasting her scent in the air. Root had come-to from being knocked out (she suspected that Harold had used her own drugs on her after the tasing) to find herself restrained; zip-tied at her ankles — her own chain linking the tie to the base of the compartment’s small armchair. The chair itself, she knew, was riveted to the floor. Her hands were cuffed at her back, where, fortunately, she had access to the wire sewn into the cuff of her blouse.

Root considered her mistake. She had assumed that someone as hidden as Harold was, someone as protective of his privacy as he was, to have no human resources beyond his small lair. Certainly not the police. This woman was a cop, but there was no mention yet of arrest. Root was very sure the omega lived in hiding from the authorities and wouldn’t want to engage with the police.

“I’m a friend,” the woman said.

“No padded cuffs for me,” Root said, looking at Harold, shifting slightly as she worked the wire out to open the cuffs. Harold was seated on the berth, free of his bonds and chains.

“No, afraid not,” he said. “But, you may not be wearing them long.” Did he know what she was doing, or was there … something else?

“Harold,” the cop said, startled, “don’t even think about setting her loose. You can’t trust this woman.”

Root was intrigued. His aura continued to bathe her (as well as the beta officer) in warmth. This was nurture at a level she’d never experienced before. The first cuff came loose but she kept her hands behind her back.

“I’m sorry, Detective,” he said. “It’s something I have to consider. We have only one stop before Des Moines, before John meets us.”

“I’m turning her over to the FBI when we get there. Suspicion of conspiracy in the death of a New York Congressman,” the cop said, but Root could hear doubt had crept into her voice.

“That is not … a viable option. Not only is it a possibility that she can evade arrest. It’s likely that someone will get hurt in the process. I’d like a few minutes to talk to her, alone.” Root got a look from Carter that promised dire consequences if she caused trouble.

“I’ll be right outside that door,” she said. Root offered her a shrug that said — what harm could I do, but couldn’t keep the hint of a smile from her face. He was a jewel, her omega, and she longed to hear what he had to say. The poor thing looked weary, so vulnerable in his thin clothing, and yet somehow he was quietly … in charge.

“I am bonded, Root,” he said, when the door closed and they were alone together. “There is no possibility, even if I were to lose John, that you could take his place. You need to understand that.” This was unkind for him to spell out but there was nothing new in it. She’d perceived her chance to turn him waning, felt the strength of his bond to the other, inferior alpha.

“I know you believe that, Harold.”

“It’s true. But there is room in my life for you.” This … was new, her inner voices quieted to listen. “I would take you for lair. Not without conditions, and never if you caused harm — but you would be my alpha.”

Conditions. She didn’t live with conditions that weren’t her own making. She didn’t need or want a lair. But this … was Harold. The anchor of the machine.

She could escape. Disable the cop. Escape from the train — but had no means to take Harold with her now. Come after him again with better planning. Or could she? She searched his face; imagined contriving to reach this point again. She’d gotten so close to what she wanted, circumstances seeming to favor her every step of the way. Could the same be achieved again?

“She doesn’t know, does she, your pet cop. About the machine.”

“No. Only John knows.”

“How did they find us,” she asked him, meeting his all-too-earnest blue eyes. “Did your machine help them?”

“It’s … possible. As you’re well aware, I have tried to prevent the machine from protecting me personally. It did not prevent your abduction of me. The machine gave us your number. That is all it provides, a number, from which we must discover a victim, or perpetrator. We were able to save you from that insane stunt of the contract on your own life. Please don’t do that again. Those were real killers and you were in real danger.” The omega seemed distraught by the idea she might have died. She tasted the sweetness of it. So much that was so delicious about him. Was what he offered possible? Sadly, no.

“Do you honestly believe,” she said, “that your alpha would ever accept me.” How could someone so brilliant, be so naive.

He sighed, looking down to his lap. Root glanced down and saw he was holding the key to her cuffs in his open palm.

“I believe he will want to kill you. I’m torn by how best to make sure that does not happen, that no one is harmed. For all our sakes. If I free you now, he and Ms Shaw will want to hunt you down.”

“They can try. He doesn’t deserve you.” It was possible, the novel thought occurred to her, that she did not deserve him herself. His misguided commitment to saving people, his rag-tag lair; she’d considered these things signs of weakness, his flaws. Looking at him now, feeling, as she had for hours, the effect of his compassionate aura, she was no longer so sure what was weakness and what was strength.

“John most definitely does deserve me. He deserves more than I can give him,” the omega said. “And you deserve … an anchor. I believe it’s possible,” he said, “that the machine may have been … complicit in bringing us together. And that your life is meant to be saved.”

She nearly laughed out loud from the rush of elation his words created; a feeling of delight that was not in her physical body, but still made her feel breathless; that his creation saw her, had a plan for her. Fate favors those, she thought, who are favored by the machine. With a sigh she brought her freed hands out from behind her. Harold’s eyebrows lifted a little, more in recognition than surprise.

“I’m leaving, Harold. As your alpha. Sadly, I cannot be with you now. I’m willing to tolerate your neanderthal mate as a condition.” She opened the chain lock at her feet and used the sharp wire to cut the zip tie. “I do need,” she said, “a token.”

 

***

Carter sat alone in the front of the luxury charter. She was tired and giving in to the comfort of her reclining seat. Harold was safe. In the hands of his alpha. No bodies had dropped and that was a small miracle, for which she was grateful.

 

***

John had left within minutes of receiving the phone call he’d longed for. His omega’s voice.

“It’s me, John. Carter is here. Root is knocked out … I’m unharmed.”

He’d closed his eyes in communion with the voice, the whisper of his omega’s breathing.

“I’m coming for you.” Bags were packed, everything was waiting and ready. The plane chartered and in place at the airport.

Hours before, he and Andrea had packed the suitcase together, for their omega.

“Don’t do anything crazy, John,” she’d said to him, cautiously, while carefully folding a delicate pair of panties and placing them in the suitcase. “You can’t afford contact with the FBI. Just get Harold out of there as quickly as possible.” He watched her tuck a package of fresh pads into a corner of the case, his eyes following the intimate things though they had no trace of Harold on them. Soon, he thought. He looked up into the beta’s eyes.

“Trust me.”

He had learned something from the Stasi agent, Ulrich Kohl — the use of the poisoned needles. He’d added a variety of them, made of composite plastic, to his weapon stash. The case of them was secure in an inside pocket of his jacket; undetectable as a weapon to airport security. The threat of Root must be neutralized. Even if she were to end up in jail (which he doubted) the alpha would be too dangerous a threat.

He’d need to act swiftly and without Harold suspecting. The omega would never countenance such an action. The poison would be in Root’s system and she would succumb within twenty-four hours, appearing to die of a heart attack. His sensitive mate need never be burdened with the knowledge of what he’d done. Shaw would know, she’d seen him prepare the needles, but they were in agreement on what needed to be done.


	35. The Train Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This will end the story for now. As always, huge thanks to readers who have taken the journey with me and been so kind with your support and encouragement.

Killing a member of his own lair made the crime unique, but it weighed no heavier on John than any other. There was a whisper of something in Root’s aura that nearly stayed his hand, but he pushed past it, nicking her with the poisoned needle. Had Kara felt that resistance, he wondered, when she shot him?

It was a small train and bus station outside Des Moines. John had waited with a cardboard cup of bad coffee for an update from Carter, to be connected again to his mate. When the call came, it stunned him, left him struggling for control.

That Harold wanted to keep him from hurting Root did not surprise him. That he wanted to let her go and did not want her hunted down, was unexpected. That he’d made her lair — this shocked him, deeply. He had to digest it, tolerate it, even if he could not accept it in his heart.

He spent a long time staring, unseeing, into the cup in his hand until he achieved a kind of understanding. Only duress, he believed, survival, could have made his omega commit such a travesty.

So much assailed him at the sight of Harold. Physical craving that was bordering on pain, anguish at seeing him in a wheelchair. It was unbearable that the chair was navigated by Root; Harold so vulnerable, stripped of his glasses and shoeless, his feet hidden, tucked under an invalid’s blanket. John had been forewarned but it was a fresh assault to see how she had taken him and to know that Harold didn’t want her harmed. His desire to kill her was intense.

The first thing he did was carefully restore Harold’s vision.

“Your glasses,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket. He saw Root betray a flicker of trepidation, as if he might be reaching for a gun. The trio facing him seemed to breath a collective sigh of relief as he produced the gold-framed spectacles. He stepped forward and gently placed them on him. The wide blue eyes closed as John lightly stroked the sensitive skin over each ear, fitting the frames in place.

“Thank you,” Harold said softly as his eyes opened again, and John couldn’t help but feel soothed by the sound of his voice, touching his skin and breathing his air. He’d then knelt on the station floor in front of him to press his face into Harold’s lap. He could have lost himself in the contours of his omega’s thighs but allowed himself only enough time to surreptitiously slide the prepared needle to a ready position in his hand.

Root dipped her head to him when he rose, as she should, to acknowledge his superiority. That she continued to hold the handles of the wheelchair, to stand so close to Harold deeply offended him. The worse affront was allowing the act of obeisance to become a lowering of her head to speak privately to Harold. It gave him the opportunity he needed to touch her, forbidding the intimacy with a blocking hand at her shoulder, warning her with a low growl. When she lifted her head and met his eyes, he bled a warning flare at her that she recoiled from. Backing up, lowering her head. Then she’d turned and left, swiftly. John was calm watching her back, knowing within hours she’d be dead.

“’Time to get Harold out of here,” Carter said, echoing the words Andrea had spoken to him hours before. “Let’s go home.”

“We owe you a debt, Carter.”

She gave him a sad sort of smile, and took the handles of the wheelchair herself, as if she sensed how hard it would be for him to touch where Root had touched.

“There is no debt, John,” she said.

 

***

 

In the plane’s private suite, Harold’s world became whole again. John — around him, inside him, his alpha’s hungry mouth re-establishing their bond, biting and suckling at the tender place on Harold’s shoulder. The omega let go of everything else. Their bodies were tied and he was full to overflowing with his alpha’s milk.

In the quiet, still tied but with the knot inside him slowly subsiding, Harold felt his perceptions shifting. He’d reached home, which was John. A familiar shore from which a different view of what he’d endured was emerging. It was almost as if a separate self had experienced the blurred surround of the train car and the reality of Root — now being replaced by the solidity of his mate.

His thoughts gathered and he began to question what he’d done. It felt slightly unreal now that he’d scratched the outline of a simple bird shape into the tender skin over Root’s heart, using the tip of her sharp knife. She’d wanted a token and there was none to give. The scarification-like marking was her idea. His tokens for his lair had been imprinted with his essence by traditional means; an invocation and keeping them close to his body to absorb his energy. There was no time for this with Root. Instead he’d resorted to a primitive blood mingling, pricking his finger to mark her torn skin.

“I hope I did not make a terrible mistake, John.” He ventured the words quietly, hesitant to break the silence. 

John stirred and kissed his shoulder, making Harold shiver as warmth was renewed where the damp of sucking had begun to cool his skin.

“You did what needed to be done,” John assured him.

“I hope you’re right.”

I did my best, Harold thought. To safeguard his lair, to save the life of a brilliant, troubled, woman. The last thing she’d whispered, “Good bye, Harold. I’ll reach out when the time is right. Be well.”

 

***

Root kept tabs on her lair from a distance, biding her time. Her brother alpha’s attempt to kill her; she awarded him an A for effort and forgave him. She’d have done the same in his place, which is why she’d taken immediate steps to counteract what she suspected he’d done. If he hadn’t tried to eliminate her as a threat, she would have held him in contempt.

She allowed the big dog to believe in his success, lying low and attending to her own business. A threat to the machine was looming through the aegis of an ex British intelligence agent and an organization called, Decima. When the time was right she’d make contact with her lair. In the meantime, her hand often strayed to touch where Harold, her extraordinary omega, had marked her.

Tapped into Harold’s surveillance she joined (in spirit) the lair’s joy over Harold’s pregnancy and the birth of a beta girl pup that he named, Amelia, after his mother. Root, who did not believe she had a sentimental bone in her body, loved to see when Harold held the tiny baby in view of the camera to nurse, to hear the soft voice he crooned to her with.

Soon, she thought, she might even hold the pup in her own arms. But not until she’d done all she could to infiltrate Decima and thereby earn the right, through protecting the lair, which included her sister, the machine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my thanks. Apologies for the "long view" ending. It was a fascinating world to discover through writing. As ever, with posting in progress, there are some ups and downs in the narrative. I feel like it went on too long. The story became difficult to grapple with as the number of things I wasn't happy with multiplied. I felt especially anxious near the end, dealing with the kidnapping and people's various feelings about Root and her fate. I believe I came as close to satisfying both my need to eradicate her and simultaneously save her as possible. This end reflects my own love/ hate feelings for the character.


End file.
